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THE 

WILLIAM  R.  PERKINS 

UBRARY 

OF 
DUKE  UNIVERSITY 


Rare  Books 


THE 


LITERARY  REMAINS 


\ 


OF 


JOHN    G.  C.    BRAINARD, 


WITH     A 


SKETCH  OF   HIS  LIFE 


"  Yet  doth  thine  image,  warm  and  deathless  dwell 

"  With  those  who  prize  the  minstrel's  hallowed  lore, 

*'  And  still  thy  music,  like  a  treasured  spell, 

"  Thrills  deep  within  our  souls. — Lamented  bard,  farewell !" 

Mrs.  Sigouniey's  Lines  to  the  Memory  of  Brainard. 


BY  J.  G.  WHITTIER. 


HARTFORD: 

PUBUSHED  BY  P.  B.  GOODSELL. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  Office  </f 
the  Clerk  of  the  District  of  Connecticut^  in  the  year  1832. 


INDEX. 


Page 

Sketch, 

.       6 

An  Occurrence  on  board  a  Brig, . 

37 

Jerusalem,       ....... 

.     43 

Matchit  Moodus, 

47 

Stanzas,          ....... 

.     52 

The  InvaUd  on  the  East  end  of  Long  Island, 

53 

The  Storm  of  War,          ..... 

.     56 

To  the  Connecticut  River,  .... 

58 

The  Money  Digger, 

.     66 

The  Smack  Race,       .         .         .         .         .     , 

69 

I  sing  the  Foot,       ...... 

.     70 

Fort  Gris'wold,  Sept.  6,  1781, 

73 

I  know  a  Brook,     ...... 

.     76 

Saturday  Night  at  Sea,         .... 

77 

On  the  Death  of  an  old  Townsman, 

.     79 

The  Fall  of  Niagara,            .... 

81 

An  April  Snow,       ...... 

,     82 

To  the  Moon, 

83 

On  the  Death  of  Commodore  Perry, 

.     86 

Epithalamium,  .            ..... 

88 

The  Shad  Spirit, 

.     89 

On  the  Birthday  of  Washington,             , 

91 

Page 

Spring.     To  Miss. , 93 

On  a  late  Loss,  ......         94 

Lines  suggested  by  a  Melancholy  Accident,      .         .     95 
On  the  Death  of  the  Rev.  L.  Parsons,  .         ,         97 

On  the  project  of  colonizing  the  "  Free  People  of  Col- 
our" in  Africa,         ......     98 

To  the  Marquis  La  Fayette,         ....         99 

Maniac's  Song,       .         .         .         .         .         .         .101 

To  the  memory  of  Charles  Brockden  Brown,  .       103 

Lord  Exmouth's  Victory, 105 

Written  for  a  Lady's  Common  Place  Book,  .       109 

The  Lost  Pleiad,  Ill 

The  Captain. — A  Fragment,         .         .         .         .112 
Extracts  from  Verses  written  for  the  New  Year,  1823,  114 

The  Newport  Tower, 122 

The  Robber,       .         .         .         .         .         .         .125 

The  Guerilla, 127 

Jack  Frost  and  the  Caty-Did,       .         .         .         .129 
On  the  Death  of  Mr.  Woodard,         .         .         .         .132 

To  the  Dead, 133 

The  Deep, 135 

The  Good  Samaritan, 136 

Salmon  River,         .         .  .         .         .         .         .139 

The  Black  Fox  of  Salmon  River,  .         .         .       141 

Isaiah,  thirty-fifth  Chapter,       .....   144 

The  Indian  Summer,  .....       146 

The  Thunder  Storm, 147 

To  a  Missionary,         ......       149 

Sonnet  to  the  Sea  Serpent,       .         .         .         .         .150 

"Aes  Ahenum,"  .         .         .         .         .         .       151 

Mr.  Merry's  lament  for  "  Long  Tom,"     .         .         .162 


'One  that's  on  the  Sea, 

For  a  Common  Place  Book, 

On  the  loss  of  a  Pious  Friend, 

The  two  Comets,    . 

The  Grave  Yard, 

A  Rainy  Day, 

Yon  Cloud, 

The  Sea  Bird's  Song,      . 

Sonnet.     To , 

Good  Night, 

The  Nosegay,     . 

The  Bar  versus  the  Docket, 

The  Alligator,     . 

The  Sweet  Brier,    . 

To  a  Lady  who  had  lost  a  Relation, 

To  the  Daughter  of  a  Friend, 

How  to  catch  a  Black  Fish, 

The  Gnjme  and  the  Paddock, 

Song,         .... 

Stanza?, 

"  Is  it  Fancy  or  is  it  Fact," 

To  a  Friend  in  the  Navy  now  sick  at  home, 

The  Drowned  Boy,      .... 

The  Tree  Toad, 

Charity,      ...... 

Introdu(  tion  to  a  Lady's  Album, 

To  a  String  tied  round  a  Finger, 

Presidential  Cotillion,      .... 

Extracts  from  verses  written  for  the  New  Year, 

July  4,  1826, 

Sonnet.  To  a  Lady,  on  the  Death  of  Mrs,  — 
1* 


Page 

164 

.  156 

.   167 

.  158 

161 

.  162 

.   163 

.  164 

165 
.  166 

167 

.  168 

.   171 

.  172 

173 
.  174 

176 
.  177 

179 
.  180 

181 
.  182 

184 
.  186 

187 
.  190 

191 

.  193 

1826,  196 

201 
,  202 


VI 


Page 
Stanzas, 203 

0  well  I  love  thee,  native  land,     ....       206 

"  Come,  Come  to  me," 208 

Answer  to  a  Friend  at  a  distance,  .         .         .       209 

To  mine  old  Plaid  Cloak, 211 

Hymn  for  Hartford  County  Agricultural  Society,     .       213 
To  the  Moon.     A  Fragment,  ....  215 

The  Widower,    .         .         .         .         .         .         .217 

Dirge.     On  the  Death  of  Adams  and  Jefferson,        .  218 

Stanzas,  .  219 

The  Young  Widow,        .         .         .         .         .         .520 

The  Dog-Watch, 221 

On  the  Death  of  Alexander,  Emperor  of  Russia,         .  222 
To  an  Antique  Female  Bust.         ....       224 


BRAINAED. 


There  is  a  feeling  of  reverence  associated  with  our 
reminiscences  of  departed  worth  and  genius.  It  is 
too  holy  and  deep  for  outward  manifestation.  It  hov- 
ers closely  around  the  heart,  sweeping  in  secret  the 
fine  and  hidden  chords  of  our  better  sympathies.  In 
contemplating  the  character  of  the  subject  of  this 
sketch,  I  feel  in  no  ordinary  degree,  the  peculiar  deli- 
cacy of  the  task  I  have  undertaken.  It  is  like  lifting 
the  shroud  from  the  still  face  of  the  dead,  that  the 
living  may  admire  its  yet  lingering  loveliness.  I  al- 
most feel  as  if  I  were  writing  in  the  presence  of  the 
disembodied  spirit  of  the  departed  ; — as  if  the  eye  of 
his  modest  and  unpretending  genius  were  following 
the  pen,  which  traces  his  brief  history. 

John  Gardiner  Calkins  Brainard,  was  born  at 
New-London,  Connecticut,  in  October,  1796.  He 
was  the  son  of  the  late  Hon.  Jeremiah  G.  Brainard, 
formerly  a  Judge  of  the  Superior  Court  in  that  State. 
His  preparatory  studies  were  under  the  direction  of 


8 

his  elder  brother,  who  is  at  this  time  a  highly  respec- 
table member  of  the  Connecticut  bar.  He  entered 
Yale  College  at  the  age  of  fifteen ; — and  soon  gave 
evidence  of  the  possession  of  a  superior  gift  of  intel- 
lect. His  genius  was  not  of  that  startling  nature, 
which  blazes  out  suddenly  from  the  chaos  of  an  un- 
formed character,  dazzling  with  its  unexpected  brill- 
iance. It  developed  itself  gradually  and  quietly.  It 
was  perceptible  to  others  even  before  its  possessor 
seemed  conscious  of  its  influence.  Never  intrusive, 
and  always  shrinking  from  competition,  it  called  forth 
an  admiration  which  had  no  alloy  of  envy.  There 
was  a  modesty  in  the  manifestations  of  his  genius, — 
a  disinterestedness,  at  times  almost  approaching  care- 
lessness, which  forbade  the  suspicion  of  rivalship,  and 
which  discovered  no  inclination  to  contend  for  those 
honors  which  all  felt  were  within  his  grasp. 

During  his  residence  at  Yale  College  he  was  a  uni- 
versal favorite.  Although,  even  at  that  early  period, 
something  of  the  sadness  which  clouded  his  after  life 
occasionally  gathered  around  him,  he  had  all  the 
cheerfulness  of  a  happy  child  in  the  society  of  his 
friends.  His  smile  was  ever  ready  to  greet  their  good 
humored  sallies ;  and  he  had,  in  turn,  his  own  peculiar 
faculty  of  awaking  mirthful  and  pleasant  emotions. 
In  his  gayer  moments  of  social  intercourse,  the  droll- 
ery of  his  manner — the  singularity  in  the  mode  of  his 
expression,  and  in  the  association  of  his  ideas, — some- 
thing of  which  is  perceptible  in  his  lighter  poems, — 
rendered  his  society  peculiarly  fascinating.     His  wit 


seldom  took  a  personal  direction.  It  played  lightly 
over  the  easy  current  of  his  conversation, — brilliant — 
sparkling — but  perfectly  harmless. 

He  was  not  a  hard  student.  He  wanted  in  a 
great  degree  even  the  common  stimulus  of  Ambition. 
He  had  no  desire  to  triumph  over  his  fellows.  He 
was  contented  with  his  own  retirement  of  thought. 
His  purposes  of  hfe,  too,  were  shadowy,  undefined 
and  mutable.  He  had  consequently,  no  given  point 
upon  which  to  direct  the  powers  of  his  mind.  The 
rays  were  scattered  carelessly  abroad,  which  should 
have  been  concentrated  upon  one  bright  and  burn- 
ing focus. 

On  leaving  College,  he  returned  to  New-London, 
and  entered  the  office  of  his  brother  William  F. 
Brainard  Esq.  as  a  Student  at  Law.  While  in  this 
situation,  he  experienced  a  disappointment  of  that 
peculiar  nature,  which  so  often  leaves  an  indelible 
impression  upon  the  human  heart.  It  probably  had 
some  influence  upon  the  tenor  of  his  after  life.  It 
threw  a  cloud  between  him  and  the  sunshine  ; — it 
turned  back  upon  its  fountain  a  frozen  current  of 
rebuked  affections.  This  circumstance  has  been 
mentioned  only  as  affording  in  some  measure,  a  solu- 
tion of  what  might  have  been  otherwise  inexplicable 
in  the  depression  of  his  maturer  years.  Perhaps 
there  are  few  men  of  sensitive  feelings  and  high  ca- 
pacities with  whom  something  of  the  kind  does  not 
exist, — something  which  the  heart  reverts  to  with 
mingled  tenderness  and  sorrow, — one  master  chord 


10 

of  feeling  the  tones  of  whose  vibrations  are  loudest 
and  longest, — one  strong  hue  in  the  picture  of  exis- 
tence, which  blends  with,  and  perchance  overpow- 
ers all  others, — one  passionate  remembrance,  which, 
at  times,  like  the  rod  of  the  Levite  swallows  up  all 
other  emotions.  This  great  passion  of  the  heart, 
when  connected  with  disappointed  feeling,  is  not  ea- 
sily forgotten.  Mirth,  wine,  the  excitement  of  con- 
vivial intercourse, — the  gaities  of  fashion, — the  strug- 
gles of  ambition,  may  produce  a  temporary  release 
from  its  presence.  But  a  word  carelessly  uttered — 
a  flower — ^a  tone  of  music — a  strain  of  poetry, — 

"  Striking  the  electric  chain  wherewith  we  are  darkly  bound," 

may  recall  it  again  before  the  eye  of  the  mind, — and 
the  memory  of  the  past — the  glow  and  ardor  of  pas- 
sion— the  hope — the  fear — the  disappointment — will 
crowd  in  upon  the  heart.  It  is  at  such  moments  that 
the  image  of  old  happiness  rises  up  like  the  Astarte  of 
Manfred,  only  to  mock  the  sick  senses  with  an  ungrat- 
ifying  visitation. 

After  his  admission  to  the  Bar  he  removed  to  the 
City  of  Middletown,  in  the  year  1819,  and  commenc- 
ed the  practice  of  his  profession.  His  situation  was 
by  no  means  congenial  to  his  feelings.  He  had  grown 
weary  of  the  dull  routine  of  his  studies.  To  use  his 
own  language,  "  he  was  of  a  temperament  much  too 
sensitive  for  his  own  comfort  in  a  calling,  which  ex- 
posed him  to  personal  altercation,  contradiction,  and 
that   sharp   and    harsh   collission,   which    tries   and 


11 

strengthens  the  passions  of  the  heart,  at  least  as  much 
as  it  does  the  faculties  of  the  mind." 

Sensitive  to  a  fault, — with  scarcely  a  desire  for  dis- 
tinction in  the  profession  which  had  been  assigned 
him,  with  no  feeling  of  avarice,  and  with  little  of 
worldly  prudence,  he  yielded  to  the  lassitude  and  un- 
nerving relaxation  of  mind  and  body  to  which  every 
young  professional  man  is  exposed,  while  waiting  for 
the  tardy  manifestations  of  public  favor.  Too  much 
is  often  expected  of  a  mind  like  that  of  Brainard.  The 
world  judges  from  external  appearance  ;  and  is  ever 
ready  to  condemn  as  eccentric  and  unprofitable,  the  bi- 
as of  that  genius,  which  from  its  very  nature  is  unable 
to  follow  in  the  vulgar  path  of  common  and  plodding 
intellect.  Locke,  whose  metaphysical  discoveries  are 
equalled  only  by  those  of  Newton  in  the  material 
universe,  was  accounted  unfit  even  for  a  physician. 
Akenside  lived  unrespected  in  his  native  town,  and 
his  poetical  reputation  was  injurious  to  his  profession, 
Blackstone  and  Lord  Mansfield  bade  farewell  to  the 
muses  when  they  betook  themselves  seriously  to 
the  law.  Darwin  prudently  concealed  his  poetry,  un- 
til his  medical  reputation  was  established.  Home 
published  Douglass,  and  lost  for  so  doing  the  pasto- 
ral care  of  his  parish.  Sir  Richard  Blackmore  enjoy- 
ed an  almost  unparallelled  reputation  as  a  physician : 
He  published  his  poetry,  and  there  were  "  none  to  do 
him  reverence." 

Genius  has  its  own  peculiar  path.     It  cannot  float 
upon  the  common  current  of  the  world.     It  has  iti 


12 

own  ideal  dwelling-place — its  unparticipated  joys; 
and  its  "heart  knoweth  its  own  bitterness,  neither 
does  the  stranger  intermeddle  therewith."  Standing 
aloof  from  the  common  path, — an  alien  in  feeling  and 
action, — its  possessor  has  been  too  often  regarded  in 
conformity  with  the  counsel  of  the  dying  man  in  Ot- 
way's  tragedy ; 

"  Shun 


The  man  that's  singular.     His  mind's  unsound — 
His  spleen  o'erwei^-hs  his  brain." 

The  apparent  listlessness  and  inactivity  of  Brainard 
were  productive  of  no  little  disappointment  and  anxi- 
ety on  the  part  of  his  friends.  They  saw  him  turn- 
ing away  from  the  struggles  of  business,  and  the  path 
of  ambition,  apparently  regardless  of  what  Roger 
Williams  has  quaintly  termed,  "the  Worlde's  great 
Trinitie,"  Pleasure,  Profit  and  Honor; — and  while 
they  acknowledged  his  high  intellectual  capacities, 
they  lamented  his  want  of  worldly  wisdom. 

During  his  residence  in  Middletown  he-  composed 
some  of  his  minor  poems  ; — and  made  several  contri- 
butions to  a  literary  paper  in  the  City  of  New-Haven, 
conducted  by  the  late  Cornelius  Tuthill,  Esq.  While 
here,  he  made  no  effort  to  win  the  attention  of  the 
public.  His  door  was  always  open  to  the  lounger; 
and  his  numerous  friends  and  associates  were  never 
unwelcome,  except  when  they  visited  him  in  the 
character  of  clients. 

Weary  of  his  experience  of  the  profession  for  which 
he  had  been  educated,  he  turned  at  last  to  the  only 


13 

path  which  seemed  open  to  him ;    and  entered  upon 
the  uncertain  and  precarious  destiny  of  a  literary  wri- 
ter.    He  had  found  himself  unable  to  mingle  in  the 
hot  and  eager  strife  of  that  political  arena,  which  the 
institutions  and  spirit  of  our  country   have  thrown 
open  to  numberless  competitors  ;    and  for  which  the 
profession  of  the  law  is  peculiarly  adapted.     To  bear 
off  the  political  palm, — to  stamp  upon  passing  events 
the  impress  of  a  master  mind, — to  trample  down  the 
weak  and  wrestle  with  the  strong,  required  nerves  of 
"  sterner  stuff"  than  those  of  Brainard.     A  stranger 
to  malevolence  and  party  bitterness  himself,  he  shrank 
from  a  collision  with  the  ruder  and  turbulent  spirits 
of  political  ambition.     It  would  be  well  for  our  coun- 
try, if  her  party  contests  were  always  of  such  a  char- 
acter, that  the  sensitive  and  the  ingenuous,  the  pure- 
hearted  and  the  gifted  might  minister  at  her  political 
altars,  without  soiling  the  white  ephod  of  their  priest- 
hood by  a  contact  with  treachery,  corruption  and  vio- 
lence. 

In  February,  1822,  he  entered  upon  the  duties  of 
an  Editor  in  the  City  of  Hartford,  having  contracted 
for  conducting  the  Connecticut  Mirror,  with  its  pub- 
Usher,  Mr.  P.  B.  Goodsell.  Unknown  at  this  time,  to 
fame,  and  struggling  with  a  gathering  despondency,  he 
began  his  literary  career.  His  anticipations  were  by 
no  means  those  of  buoyant  and  elastic  feeling.  His 
hope  was  like  that  described  by  Cowley : — 

"  Whose  weak  being  mined  is 
Alike  if  it  succeed  and  if  it  miss, 
Whom  good  or  ill  doth  equally  confound, 
And  both  the  horns  of  fate's  dilemma  wound." 
2 


14 

He  had  failed  in  the  profession  to  which  he  had  devot- 
ed the  morning  of  his  existence.  He  was  making  an 
experiment,  upon  the  issue  of  which  the  character  of 
his  future  destiny  depended.  He  had  seen  enough 
of  Ufe, — he  had  felt  enough  of  the  workings  of  his  own 
spirit,  to  know  that  his  "thoughts  were  not  the 
thoughts  of  other  men," — that  a  gulf,  wider  than  that 
which  yawned  between  Dives  and  the  beatified  spir- 
its of  happiness,  separated  him  from  the  common 
sympathies  of  the  busy,  grasping,  unnatural  world. 
He  went  to  his  weekly  task  as  to  the  performance  of 
an  unwelcome  duty, — but  without  physical  energy  or 
firmness  of  purpose.  His  temperament  was  totally 
unfitted  for  the  rough  coUissions  of  editorial  contro- 
versy. There  was  too  much  gentleness  in  his  na- 
ture,— too  much  charity  for  the  offending,  and  too 
much  modesty  in  his  own  pretensions',  to  allow  of  any 
rudeness  of  criticism  or  severity  of  censure.  .  His 
writings  in  the  Connecticut  Mirror  are  uniformly 
gentlemanly  and  goodnatured.  It  is  impossible  to 
discover  in  them  any  thing  like  malice  or  wantonness 
of  satire.  He  was  the  first  to  award  due  praise  to 
his  literary  brethren.  His  criticisms  were  those  of  a 
man  willing  to  lend  his  fine  ear  to  the  harmonies  of 
poetry,  and  his  clear  healthful  eye  to  the  light  of  in- 
tellectual beauty,  wherever  these  were  to  be  seen  or 
heard.  In  deciding  upon  the  merits  of  a  new  publi- 
cation, he  did  not  pause  to  inquire  who  was  the  au- 
thor, or  coldly  weigh  in  the  balance  of  his  selfishness, 
the  probable  effect  upon  himself,  of  a  favorable  or  un- 


15 

favorable  expression  of  opinion.  He  had  nothing  of 
that  carping,  mole-visioned  spirit  of  criticism,  which 
has  neither  eye  to  see,  nor  heart  to  appreciate  truth 
and  beauty  in  others  ;  but  which  Hke  the  torch,  which 
the  ancients  ascribed  to  their  personification  of  Ma- 
levolence, lingers  only  upon  faults. 

The  originality  and  sph'it  of  his  poetical  writings 
soon  attracted  attention.  His  pieces  were  extensive- 
ly copied,  and,  not  unfrequently,  with  high  encomi- 
um. The  voice  of  praise  is  always  sweet,  but  doubly 
so  w'hen  it  falls  for  the  first  time  upon  a  youthful  ear. 
But,  Brainard  was  one  of  those  who  "  bear  their  fac- 
ulties meekly."  Although  publishing,  week  after 
week,  poems  which  would  have  done  honor  to  the 
genius  of  Burns  and  Wordsw'orth,  he  never  publicly 
betrayed  any  symptoms  of  vanity.  He  held  on  the 
quiet  and  even  tenor  of  his  way,  apparently  regard- 
less of  that  prodigality  of  intellectual  beauty  which 
blossomed  around  him.  With  but  a  moiety  of  his 
powers,  more  ardent  and  aspiring  spirits  would  have 
striven  mightily  for  the  sunshine  of  applause.  Brain- 
ard sought  the  shade.  The  fine  current  of  his  mind, 
lilce  the  '  sacred  river'  of  the  Kubla  Khan,  "  meander- 
ed with  an  easy  motion,"  in  the  silence  and  the  cool- 
ness of  abstracted  thought,  far  below  the  noisy  and 
heated  atmosphere  of  the  world.  Its  music  was  for 
himself  alon.?.  He  cared  not  that  the  great  world 
should  hear  it.  It  was  like  that  hidden  brooklet 
which  Coleridge  speaks  of, — 


"  To  the  sleeping  woods  all  night 


Singing  a  quiet  tune"— r 


1» 

a  stream,  it  is  true,  which  burst  forth  occasionally  into 
the  live  sunshine,  like  the  flow  of  molten  diamonds, 
but  which  seemed  to  murmur  sweeter,  where  it 
caught  its  glimpses  of  blue  sky  and  sailing  cloud, 
through  the  dim  vistas  of  the  shaded  solitude. 

Aside  from  its  original  poetry  and  occasional  noti- 
ces of  new  books,  the  Mirror,  while  under  his  con- 
trol hardly  rose  to  mediocrity.  The  editorial  re- 
marks were  usually  comprised  in  a  few  short  and 
hastily  written  paragraphs.  There  was  a  childish 
playfulness  in  his  brief  notices  of  important  events. 
His  political  speculations  were  puerile  and  boyish. 
He  turned  off"  the  Tariff  with  a  humorous  compari- 
son or  a  quaint  quotation ;  and  dismissed  the  subject 
of  the  Presidency  with  a  jeu  de  esprit.  Feeling  him- 
self unqualified  by  education  or  habit  for  the  discus- 
sion of  these  matters,  he  would  not  for  the  enjoy- 
ment of  a  fictitious  reputation. 


"  Get  him  glass  eyes, 


And  like  a  scurvy  politician  seem 
To  see  the  things  he  did  not." 

He  received  considerable  assistance  from  his  broth- 
er,— whose  frequent  communications  are  marked  by 
strong,  nervous  and  original  thought. 

His  habits  of  self  reliance,  of  a  gentle  retirement 
into  the  calm  beauty  of  his  own  mind  rendered  him, 
in  a  measure  indifferent  to  the  opinion  of  the  world. 
Yet  he  loved  society — the  society  of  the  gifted  and 
intellectual — and,  of  those  who  had  become  accustom-* 


IK 

fed  to  his  peculiarities  of  manner  and  feeling,  who 
could  appreciate  his  merit,  or  relish  his  good  natured 
jests  and  "  mocks  and  Imaveries,"  and  laugh  with  him 
at  what  he  considered  the  ludicrous  eagerness  of  the 
multitude  after  the  vanities  of  existence.  In  larger 
and  mixed  circles  his  peculiar  sensitiveness  was  a  fre- 
quent cause  of  unhappiness.  Amidst  his  gaiety  and 
humour,  a  word  spoken  inadvertently — some  unmean- 
ing gesture — some  casual  inattention  or  unlucky  over- 
sight, checked  at  once,  the  free  glow  of  his  sprightly 
conversation — the  jest  died  upon  his  lip, — and  the 
melancholy  which  had  been  lifted  from  his  heart,  fell 
back  again  with  increased  heaviness. 

A  writer  in  one  of  our  Daily  Journals,*  in  a  brief 
but  very  eloquent  notice  of  the  death  of  Brainard, 
thus  speaks  of  his  intellectual  character  while  a  resi- 
dent in  Hartford :  "  Brainard  did  not  make  much 
show  in  the  world.  He  was  an  unassuming  and  un- 
ambitious man — but  he  had  talents  which  should  have 
made  him  our  pride.  They  were  not  showy  or  daz- 
zling— and  perhaps  that  is  the  reason  that  the  gene- 
ral eye  did  not  rest  upon  him — but  he  had  a  keen 
discriminating  susceptibility,  and  a  taste  exquisitely 
refined  and  true."  *  *  *  "  Brainard  had  no  enemies. 
It  was  not  that  his  character  was  negative  or  his  cour- 
tesy universal.  There  was  a  directness  in  his  man- 
ner, and  a  plain-spoken  earnestness  in  his  address, 
which  could  never  have  been  wanting  in  proper  dis- 

•  Boston  Statesman  of  1828. 
2* 


16 

crimination.      He  would  never  have   compromised 
with  the  unworthy  for  their   good  opinion.      But  it 
was  his  truth — his  fine,  open,  ingenuous  truth — bound 
up  with  a  character  of  great  purity  and  benevolence, 
which  won  love  for.  him.     I  never  met  a  man  of  whom 
all  men  spoke  so  well.     I  fear  I  never  shall.     When 
I  was  introduced  to  him,  he  took  me  aside  and  talk- 
ed with  me  for  an  hour.     I  shall  never  forget  that 
conversation.     He  made  no  common-place  remarks. 
He  would  not  talk  of  himself,  though  I  tried  to  lead 
him  to  it.     He  took  a  high  intellectual  tone,  and  I 
never  have  heard  its  beauty  or  originality  equalled. 
He  knew  wonderfully  well  the  secrets  of  mental  rel- 
ish and  developement ;  and  had  evidently  examined 
himself  till  he  had  grown   fond,  as  every  one  must 
who  does  it,  of  a  quiet,  contemplative,  self-cultivating 
life.     He  had  gone  on   with  this  process  until  the 
spiritual    predominated    entirely    over   the    material 
man.     He  was  all  soul — all  intellect — and  he  neglect- 
ed therefore,  the  exciting  ambitions  and  the  common 
habits  which  keep  the  springs  of  ordinary  life  excited 
and  healthy — and  so  he   died — and  I  loiow  not  that 
for  his  own  sake  we  should  mourn." 
The  citizens  of  Hartford  were  by  no  means  unmind- 
ful of  the  real  worth  of  Brainard,  and  if  any  thing  of 
an  unpleasant  nature  occurred  in  his  intercourse  with 
them,  it  might  generally  be  traced  to  his  own  suscep- 
tibility and  tenderness  of  feeling.     The  writer  from 
whom  I  have  just  quoted,  thus  describes  the  circum- 
stances under  which  he  first  saw  the  subject  of  his 


19 

sketch :  "  The  first  time  I  ever  saw  him,  I  met  him  in 
a  gay  and  fashionable  circle.  He  was  pointed  out  to 
me  as  the  poet  Brainard — a  plain,  ordinary  looking 
individual,  careless  in  his  dress,  and  apparently  with- 
out the  least  outward  claim  to  the  attention  of  those 
who  value  such  advantages.  But  there  was  no  per- 
son there  so  much  or  so  flatteringly  attended  to.  He 
was  among  those  who  saw  him  every  day  and  knew 
him  familiarly ;  and  I  almost  envied  him,  as  he  went 
round,  the  unqualified  kindness  and  even  affection, 
with  which  every  bright  girl  and  every  mother  in 
that  room  received  him.  He  was  evidently  the  idol, 
not  only  of  the  poetry-loving  and  gentler  sex — but 
also  of  the  young  men  who  were  about  him — an  evi- 
dence of  worth,  let  me  say,  which  is  as  high  as  it  is 
uncommon." 

In  1824-5,  he  prepared  for  the  press  a  small  vol- 
ume of  his  poems.  It  was  published  at  New- York 
in  the  Spring  of  1825.  It  contains  about  40  short 
pieces  of  poetry,  most  of  which  were  cut  from  the 
files  of  the  Mirror  with  little  or  no  revision.  The 
quaint  humor  of  the  author  appears  in  the  title  page  : 
"  Occasional  Pieces  of  Poetry,  by  John  G.  C.  Brain- 
ard. 

Some  said,  "  John,  print  it ;"  others  said,  "  Not  so ;" — 
Some  said,  "  It  might  do  g-ood  ;"  others  said,  "  No." 

Bumjmi's  Jlpology. 

The  introduction  is  brief  and  characteristic :  "  The 
author  of  the  following  pieces  has  been  induced  to 


20 

publish  them  in  a  book,  from  considerations  which 
cannot  be  interesting  to  the  pubUc.  Many  of  these 
httle  poems  have  been  printed  in  the  Connecticut 
Mirror;  and  the  others  are  just  fit  to  keep  them 
company.  No  apologies  are  made,  and  no  criticisms 
deprecated.  The  common  place  story  of  the  impor- 
tunities of  friends,  though  it  had  its  share  in  the  pub- 
lication, is  not  insisted  upon ;  but  the  vanity  of  the 
author,  if  others  choose  to  call  it  such,  is  a  natural 
motive ;  and  the  hope  of  "  making  a  little  some- 
thing by  it,"  is  an  honest  acknow^ledgment,  if  it  is  a 
poor  excuse." 

In  this  humble  and  unpretending  manner,  a  vol- 
ume was  introduced  to  the  public,  of  which  it  is  not 
too  much  to  say,  that  it  contains  more  pure,  beauti- 
ful poetry,  than  any  equal  number  of  pages  ever 
published  in  this  country.  I  would  make  no  rash  as- 
sertion. Fame  cannot  visit  Brainard  in  his  grave ; 
and  I  would  not  wrong  his  memory  by  exagerated 
eulogium.  Nor  would  I  detract  in  the  slightest  de- 
gree from  the  just  reputation  of  the  living.  As  an 
American  I  am  proud  of  the  many  gifted  spirits  who 
have  laid  their  offerings  upon  the  altar  of  our  na- 
tional literature.  I  believe  them  capable  of  greater 
and  more  successful  efforts.  I  would  encourage 
them  onward.  There  is  a  growing  disposition  at 
home  and  abroad  to  reward  literary  exertion.  And 
even  if  such  were  not  the  fact,  is  there  nothing  in  the 
mild  process  of  intellectual  refinement,  which  is  of 
itself  worth  more  than  the  great  world  can  bestow  ? 


it 

"  Poetry"  says  Coleridge,  "  has  been  to  me  its  own 
exceeding  great  reward."  This  consciousness  of 
rightly  improving  the  endowments  of  Heaven, — of 
possessing  a  pure,  internal  fountain  of  innocent  hap- 
piness, to  which  the  spirit  may  turn  for  its  refreshing 
from  the  fever  of  the  world, — this  contented  self  re- 
liance, 

''  Which  nothing  earthly  gives,  or  can  destroy, 
The  soul's  calm  sunshine  and  the  heartfelt  joy" 

is  far  more  to  be  desired  than  the  deceitful  murmurs 
of  applause  falling  upon  the  craving  ear  of  an  unsatis- 
fied spirit.  Goethe  learned  this  truth,  long  before 
the  public  eye  was  fixed  upon  him.  He  could  be 
happy  and  satisfied  in  the  enjoyment  of  his  own  in- 
\  tellectual  paradise,  even  before  the  world  had  reali- 
zed or  acknowledged  its  exceeding  beauty.  In  such 
a  state  the  mind  becomes  worthy  of  its  origin.  It  re- 
alizes in  Time,  something  of  its  expansion  in  Eter- 
nity. 

It  is  not  to  be  denied  that  some  of  the  poems  in 
this  little  collection  were  totally  unworthy  of  Brain- 
ard's  genius, — hasty,  careless,  and  even  in  some  in- 
stances below  mediocrity — serving  only  as  a  foil  to 
the  exceeding  beauty  of  the  others.  But  what  poet 
of  modern  days  has  ever  published  a  perfect  vol- 
ume '( — Byron  threw  his  hasty,  but  powerful  produc- 
tions before  the  public  with  beauty  wedded  to  defor- 
mity. Southey.  "discourses  fustian"  in  his  Joan  of 
Arc;  and  in  the  midst  of  his  wild  dream  of  Eastern 


*  22 

wonder  tell  his  ridiculous  story  of  Kohama's  ride  into 
Hell  over  nine  several  bridges.  Wordsworth,  with 
all  his  fine  perceptions  of  natural  beauty,  and  his  ex- 
quisite philosophy,  sinks  at  times  into  the  most  disgust- 
ing puerility, — the  pathos  and  sentiment  of  an  over- 
grown baby.  Even  the  gifted  Shelly  wearies  us  with 
his  sickly  conceits  and  unsubstantial  theories ; — and 
the  author  of  St.  Agnes  Eve  is  mawkish  and  affected 
in  his  Endymion.  It  is  certainly  creditable  to  our 
Literary  Reviews  and  Journals  that,  notwithstanding 
its  obvious  defects,  the  volume  of  Brainard  was  re- 
ceived with  general  and  liberal  encomium.  Th« 
North  x\merican  Review — one  of  mir  ablest  periodi- 
cals— in  a  notice,  generally  favorable  and  extending 
through  several  pages,  after  speaking  of  the  propen- 
sity of  American  writers  to  indulge  in  an  unnatural 
and  affected  style — "  the  contortions  of  the  Sybil, 
without  the  inspiration :" — makes  the  following  re- 
marks upon  the  particular  subject  in  question  :— 
"  The  instances  are  rare  in  which  the  charge  of  affec- 
tation can  be  made  against  Mr.  Brainard,  whatever 
may  be  his  faults  of  taste  and  execution  ;  or  in  which 
his  practice  can  be  said  to  sanction  the  doctrine  that 

"  One  line  for  sense  and  one  for  rhyme 
Is  quite  enough  at  any  time." 

He  seldom  aims  at  more  than  he  can  accomplish : 
the  chief  misfortune  with  him  is,  that  he  should  be 
contented  sometimes  to  accomplish  so  little,  and  that 
little  in  so  imperfect  a  manner.     That  he  possesses 


23 

much  of  the  genuine  spirit  and  power  of  poetry,  no 
one  can  doubt  who  reads  some  of  the  pieces  in  this 
volume,  yet  there  are  others  which,  if  not  absolutely 
below  mediocrity,  would  never  be  suspected  as  com- 
ing from  a  soil  w'atered  by  the  dews  of  Castaly. 
They  might  pass  off  very  well  as  exercises  in  rhyme 
of  an  incipient  poet,  the  first  efforts  of  pluming  the 
wing  for  a  bolder  flight,  and  they  might  hold  for  a 
day  an  honorable  place  in  the  corner  of  a  gazette, 
but  to  a  higher  service,  a  more  conspicuous  station, 
they  could  not  wisely  be  called.  In  short,  if  we  take 
all  the  author's  compositions  in  this  volume  together, 
nothing  is  more  remarkable  concerning  them  than 
their  inequality ;  the  high  poetical  beauty  and 
strength,  both  in  thought  and  language  of  some  parts, 
and  the  want  of  good  taste  and  the  extreme  negli- 
gence of  others." 

Although  the  success  which  attended  his  first  pub- 
lication was  such  as  might  have  stimulated  one  of  a 
different  temperament  to  greater  and  more  systemat- 
ic exertion,  it  had  no  sensible  effect  upon  Brainard. 
His  friends  urged  him  to  undertake  a  poem  of  some 
length  in  which  he  could  concentrate  the  full  vigor 
and  beauty  of  his  poetical  powers  ;  but  he  could  nev- 
er be  prevailed  upon  to  task  his  mind  with  the  effort. 
He  continued  however  to  publish  at  long  intervals, 
his  "occasional  pieces."  These  are  now  collected 
for  the  first  time  in  the  present  volume. 

It  is  very  probable  that  lassitude  and  bodily  debili- 
ty may  have  been  the  prominent  cause  of  the  inactivi- 


24 

ty  of  Brainard  even  after  the  general  voice  had  pro- 
nounced him  capable  of  "  marking  the  age  with  his 
name."  Fame  may  "  minister  to  a  mind  diseased  ;" 
but  it  cannot  re-fill  the  exhausted  fountains  of  exist- 
ence ;  and  that  for  which  health  and  happiness  have 
been  sacrificed,  may  prove  at  last  a  mockery — like 
"delicates  poured  upon  the  mouth  shut  up,  or  as 
meats  set  upon  a  grave." 

In  the  Spring  of  1827,  his  health,  which  had  for 
some  time  been  failing,  admonished  him  to  seek  its 
restoration  by  means  of  a  temporary  release  from  the 
duties  of  his  profession.  He  returned  to  the  quiet  of 
his  birthplace.  There,  all  was  affection  and  sympa- 
thy ;  and  for  these  his  sick  spirit  had  longed  "  even 
as  the  servant  earnestly  desireth  the  shadow."  His 
illness  soon  assumed  the  fearful  character  of  a  decid- 
ed consumption. 

During  the  Summer  he  spent  a  short  time  on  Long 
Island.  While  here  he  composed  that  beautiful  and 
touching  sketch  "  The  Invalid  on  the  East  end  of 
Long  Island,"  which  cannot  but  be  admired  for  its 
touching  pathos,  and  exquisite  description.  It  is  re- 
markable as  the  only  piece  in  which  his  sickness  is  al- 
luded to.  He  did  not  wish  to  turn  the  public  eye 
upon  himself.  He  was  contented  with  the  sympathy 
and  affectionate  kindness  of  his  intimate  friends.  In 
the  loneliness  of  his  sick  chamber  these  were  worth 
more  to  him  than  the  plaudits  of  a  world. 

He  never  returned  to  Hartford.  The  slow  but 
certain  progress  of  disease  compelled  him  to  resign 


25 

into  other  hands  the  editorial  department  of  his  paper. 
Notwithstanding  the  circumstances  under  which  it 
was  written,  his  brief  and  pertinent  valedictory,  is 
bouyant  with  the  author's  characteristic  cheerfulness. 
He  wrote  while  at  New-London,  several  short  po- 
ems which  were  published  in  the  Mirror.  These 
bear  no  evidence  of  that  depression  which  so  gene- 
rally accompanies  a  lingering  illness.  They  are  fan- 
ciful and  brilHant — indicating  a  clear  and  healthful 
mental  vision,  unaffected  by  the  circumstance  of 
physical  decay. 

To  most  minds  there  is  something  terrible  in  the 
steady  and  awful  decline  of  the  powers  of  nature, — 
the  gradual  loosening  of  the  silver  cord  of  existence. 
It  is  in  truth  a  fearful  thing  to  perish  slowly  in  the 
very  spring  of  existence, — to  feel  day  after  day,  our 
hold  on  life  less  certain, — tc^look  out  upon  Nature 
with  an  eye  and  a  spirit  capable  of  realizing  its  beau- 
ty, and  yet  to  feel  that  to  us  it  is  forbidden, — to  be 
conscious  of  deep  affections  and  tender  sympathies 
and  yet  to  know  that  these  must  perish  in  our  own 
bosoms,  unshared  and  solitary, — to  feel  the  fever  of 
ambition,  without  the  power  to  satisfy  its  thirst, — 
and,  ourselves  dark  and  despairing,  to  "look  into 
happiness  through  the  eyes  of  others.  But  Brainard 
was  happy  in  the  hour  of  sickness  and  the  failing  of 
his  strength.  Death  for  him  had  few  terrors. — 
Young  as  he  was  he  had  learned  to  turn  aside  from 
the  world, — to  live  in  it  without  leaning  upon  it. 
His  were  the  consolations  of  that  religion  whose  ija- 
3 


26 

heritance  is  not  of  this  world.  While  in  health — in 
the  widest  range  of  his  fancy — in  the  purest  play  of 
his  humor,  he  had  never  indulged  in  irreverence  or 
profanity,  for  there  was  always  a  deep  under-current 
of  religious  feeling,  tempering  the  lighter  elements  of 
his  disposition.  He  had  moreover  made  himself 
thoroughly  acquainted  with  the  great  truths  of  Chris- 
tianity by  a  long  and  careful  study  of  the  sacred  vol- 
ume. And  when,  to  use  his  own  language,  he  turn- 
ed 

"Away  from  all  that's  bright  and  beautiful — 
To  the  sick  pillow  and  the  feverish  bed," 

the  pure  and  sustaining  influence  of  that  peace  which 
is  "  not  such  as  the  world  giveth"  was  around  him, 
"  like  the  shadow  of  a  great  rock  in  a  weary  land." 
There  is  a  refining  process  in  sickness.  The  human 
spirit  is  purified  and  made  better  by  the  ordeal  of 
afl^liction.  The  perishing  body  is  strongly  contrast- 
ed with  its  living  guest — the  one  sinking  into  ruins — 
the  other  '  secure  in  its  existence,'  and  strong  in  its 
imperishable  essence.  It  may  be  that,  according  to 
the  poet, 

"  The  soul's  dark  cottage,  battered  and  decayed, 

Still  lets  in  light  through  chinks  which  Time  has  made," 

and  that  when  the  pleasures  and  varieties  of  the 
world  are  stealing  away  forever — when  the  frail  foot- 
hold of  existence  is  washing  rapidly  away — like  the 
disciple  of  the  Egyptian  Priesthood,  who,  in  ascend- 


S7 

tag  the  mystic  ladder  of  the  temple  of  Iris,  was  com- 
pelled to  grasp  the  round  above  him,  while  the  one 
beneath  him  was  crumbling  in  pieces — the  human 
spirit  is  led  upward  by  the  very  insufficiency  of  its 
earthly  support,  until  at  last  it  takes  hold  on  Heav- 
en. In  the  hour  of  health  and  high  enjoyment,  a 
thousand  images  of  earthly  beauty  rise  between  us 
and  the  better  land.  It  is  only  when  those  "  which 
look  out  at  the  window  are  darkened"  that  the  full 
glory  of  the  beatific  vision  is  realized.  It  is  in  the 
shadow,  and  not  in  the  bright  sunshine  that  the  eye 
looks  farthest  into  the  blue  mysteries  above  us. 

The  Rev.  Mr.  M'Ewen  pastor  of  the  Church  of 
which  Brainard  was  a  member,  in  a  letter  to  the 
Rev.  Dr.  Ilawes  of  Hartford,  thus  describes  the  last 
hours  of  his  friend.  "  In  my  first  visit  to  him,  two 
or  three  months  before  his  death,  he  said  : — '  I  am 
sick  and  near  death,  and  I  ought  not  to  be  too  con- 
fident how  I  should  act  or  feel  had  I  a  prospect  of 
health  and  the  worldly  pleasures  and  prosperity  which 
it  would  offer.  But,  if  I  know  myself  I  would,  were 
I  well,  devote  my  life  to  the  service  of  Jesus  Christ.' 
I  stated  some  of  the  main  doctrines  of  Christianity. 
'These  are  scripture,'  he  said — 'they  are  true,  and 
delightful  to  me.  The  plan  of  Salvation  in  the  Gos- 
pel is  all  that  I  wish  for ; — it  fills  me  with  wonder  and 
gratitude ;  and  makes  the  prospect  of  death  not  only 
peaceful  but  joyful. — '  My  salvation,'  he  continued, 
'  is  not  to  be  effected  by  a  profession  of  religion  ; 
but   when  I  read  Christ's    requirements,   and  look 


28 

round  on  my  friends  and  acquaintance,  I  cannot 
cannot  be  content  without  performing  this  public 
duty."  He  was  propounded,  and  in  due  tini>e,  pale 
and  feeble,  yet  manifestly  with  mental  joy  and  sereni- 
ty, he  came  to  the  house  of  God,  professed  his  faith 
and  was  baptized,  and  entered  into  covenant  with 
God  and  his  people.  The  next  Sabbath  the  Lord's 
Supper  was  administered.  It  was  wet  and  he  could 
not  be  out.  His  disappointment  was  great.  A  few 
friends  went  to  his  room  and  communed  with  him 
there  in  this  ordinance.  While  his  father's  family 
and  others,  during  the  scene,  were  dissolved  in  tears, 
he  sat  with  dignity  and  composure,  absorbed  in  the 
interesting  ceremony  in  which  he  was  engaged.  In 
my  last  interview  with  him,  after  he  was,  at  his  own 
request,  left  alone  with  me,  he  said  :  "  I  wish  not  to 
be  deceived  about  my  state — but  I  am  not  in  the  usu- 
al condition  to  try  myself.  No  one  abuses  a  sick 
man — every  thing  around  me  is  symp>athy  and  kind- 
ness. I  used  to  be  angry  when  people  spoke  what 
was  true  of  me.  I  have  now  no  resentment.  I  can 
forgive  all,  and  pray  I  think  for  the  salvation  of  all. 
I  am  not  tried  with  pain.  I  have  hardly  any  out- 
ward trial.'  '  But,'  said  I,  '  you  have  one  great  tri- 
al— you  must  soon  part  with  life:'  'And  I  am  wil- 
ling' he  replied.  '  The  Gospel  makes  my  prospect 
delightful.  God  is  a  God  of  truth,  and  I  think  I  am 
reconciled  to  him.'  I  saw  him  no  more,  but  was 
lold  that  he  died  in  peace." 

He  died  September  26th,  1828.    The  event  was 


2^ 

widely  deplored.  The  poetry  of  Brainard  had  ad- 
dressed itself  directly  to  the  heart,  and  had  made  its 
author  beloved  by  thousands  who  had  never  seen 
him.  Brainard  has  beautifully  described  the  sor- 
rows of  the  Tuscan  philosopher  when  his  favorite 
Pleiad  had  vanished  from  its  clustering  sisterhood. 
It  was  with  something  of  this  feeling  that  the  friends 
of  American  genius  looked  out  upon  and  numbered 
the  lights  of  our  literary  horizon,  and  mourned  for 
that  missing  star,  whose  rising  was  so  full  of  prom- 
ise. In  the  places  of  his  former  residence  the  news 
of  his  death,  though  long  expected,  came  like  a 
sudden  and  mournful  visitation.  All  felt,  more 
sensibly  than  ever,  the  true  worth  of  the  noble 
spirit  which  had  been  among  them.  In  his  own 
family  there  was  that  deeper  "grief  which  pass- 
eth  show" — a  sorrow  which  could  be  alleviated  only 
by  the  consolations  of  that  hope  which  sustained  in 
his   last  moments,   their  departed  relative. 

"  Where  shall  they  turn  to  mourn  him  less  ? — 
When  cease  to  hear  his  cherished  name  ? 

Time  cannot  teach  Forgetfulness, 

When  Grief's  full  heart  is  fed  by  Fame." 

The  person  of  Brainard  was  rather  below  the  or- 
dinary standard — a  circumstance  which  gave  him  a 
great  deal  of  uneasiness,  and  any  allusion  to  it,  how- 
ever playful,  never  failed  to  injure  deeply  his  sensi- 
tive feelings.     His  features  were  expressive  of  mild- 

3* 


30 

riess  and  reflection.  There  was  a  dreamy  listless- 
ness  in  his  eye,  which,  however,  gave  way  to  the 
changes  of  feehng  and  passion. 

I  cannot  forbear  introducing  in  this  place  an  ex- 
tract of  a  letter  from  a  Lady,  highly  distinguished  in 
the  walks  of  Literature, — one,  who  knew  Brainard 
well,  and  who  has  on  another  occasion,  paid  a  beau- 
tiful and  just  tribute  to  his  memory  : 

"  To  the  intellectual  power,  and  poetical  eminence 
of  Mr.  Brainard,  the  public  will  undoubtedly  do  justice. 
But  those  who  knew  and  valued  him  as  a  friend,  can 
bear  testimony  to  the  intrinsic  excellencies  of  his 
character.  They  were  admitted  with  a  generous 
freedom  into  the  sanctuary  of  his  soul,  and  saw  those 
fountains  of  deep  and  disinterested  feeling  which  were 
hidden  from  casual  observation.  Friendship  was  not 
in  him  a  modification  of  selfishness,  lightly  conceived, 
and  as  lightly  dissolved.  His  sentiments  respecting  it, 
were  formed  on  the  noble  models  of  ancient  story, — 
and  he  proved  himself  capable  of  its  delicate  percep- 
tions, and  its  undeviating  integrities.  His  heart  had 
an  aptitude  both  for  its  confidential  interchange,  and 
its  sacred  responsibilities.  In  his  intercourse  with 
society,  he  exhibited  neither  the  pride  of  genius,  nor 
the  pedantry  of  knowledge.  To  the  critick  he  might 
have  appeared  deficient  in  personal  dignity.  So 
humbly  did  he  think  of  himself,  and  his  own  attain- 
ments, that  the  voice  of  approbation  and  kindness, 
seemed  necessary  to  assure  his  spirits,  and  even  to  sus- 
tain his  perseverance  in  the  labours  of  literature. — 


31 

Possessed  both  of  genuine  wit,  and  of  that  playful  hu-* 
mourwhich  rendered  his  company  sought  and  admired, 
he  never  trifled  with  the  feelings  of  others,  or  aimed 
to  shine  at  their  expense.  Hence  he  expected  the 
same  regard  to  his  own  mental  comfort, — and  was 
exceedingly  vulnerable  to  the  careless  jest,  or  to  the 
chillness  of  reserve. 

It  did  not  require  the  eye  of  intimacy  to  discover 
that  he  was  endowe  i  with  an  acute  sensibility.  This 
received  early  nurture,  and  example  in  the  bosom  of 
most  aifectionate  relatives.  The  endearing  associ- 
ations connected  with  his  paternal  mansion,  preserved 
their  freshness  and  force,  long  after  he  ceased  to  be  an 
inmate  there.  It  was  ever  a  remedy  for  his  despon- 
dency to  elicit  from  him  descriptions  of  the  scenery  of 
his  native  place,  of  the  rambles  of  his  boyhood,  of  the 
little  boat  in  which  he  first  dared  the  waves  ; — but 
more  especially  of  his  beloved  parents, — of  his  aged 
grandmother, — and  of  those  fraternal  sympathies 
which  constituted  so  great  a  part  of  his  happiness. 
When  he  had  been  for  years  a  denizen  of  the  busy 
world,  and  had  mingled  in  those  competitions  which 
are  wont  to  wear  the  edge  from  the  finer  feelings,  a 
visit  to  his  lionie,  was  an  unchanged  subject  of  joyous 
anticipation,  of  cherished  recollection.  At  one  of  his 
last  departures  from  that  dear  spot,  previous  to  his 
return  thither  to  die ; — he  stood  upon  the  deck  of  the 
boat,  watching  each  receding  vestige  of  spire,  tree, 
roof  and  billow,  with  a  lingering  and  intense  affection. 
Perceiving  himself  to  be  observed,  he  dashed  away  the 


32 

large  tears  that  were  gathering  hke  rain-drops,  and 
conquering  his  emotion,  said  in  a  careless  tone, — 
"Well,  they  are  good  folks  there  at  home, — all  good 

but  me;  that  was  the  reason  they  sent  me  away." 

The  efforts  which  he  continually  put  forth  during  his 
intercourse  with  mankind,  to  conceal  his  extreme  sus- 
ceptibility, sometimes  gave  to  his  manners  the  semb- 
lance of  levity.  Hence  he  was  liable  to  misconstruc- 
tion, and  a  consciousness  of  this,  by  inducing  occasion- 
al melancholy  and  seclusion,  threw  him  still  further 
from  these  sympathies  for  which  his  affectionate 
spirit  languished.  Still  it  cannot  be  said  that  his  sen- 
sibility had  a  morbid  tendency.  It  shrank  indeed,  like 
the  Mimosa,  but  it  had  no  worm  at  its  root.  Its  gush- 
ings  forth,  were  in  admiration  of  the  charms  of  nature, 
— and  in  benevolence  to  the  humblest  creature, — to 
the  poor  child  in  the  street,  and  to  the  forest-bird.  It 
had  affinity  with  love  to  God,  and  with  good-will  to 
man.  Had  his  life  been  prolonged,  and  he  permitted 
to  encircle  with  the  beautiful  domestick  charities  a 
household  hearth  of  his  own,  the  true  excellencies  of 
his  heart,  would  have  gained  more  perfect  illustration. 
It  possessed  a  simplicity  of  trusting  confidence, — a  full- 
ness of  tender  and  enduring  affection  which  would 
there  have  found  free  scope,  and  legitimate  action. 
There  he  might  have  worn  as  a  crown,  that  exquisite 
sensibility,  which  among  proud  and  lofty  spirits  he 
covered  as  a  blemish, — or  shrank  from  as  a  reproach. 
But  it  pleased  the  Almighty  early  to  transfer  him, 
where  loneliness  can  no  longer  settle  as  a  cloud  over 


33 

his  soul, — nor  the  coarse  enginery  which  earth  em|>loy» 
jar  against  its  harp-strings,  and  obstruct  its  melody." 

The  poetry,  which  Brainard  has  left  behind  him, 
should  be  considered  only  in  the  light  of  a  beautiful 
promise, — an  earnest  of  the  capabihties  of  a  mind  un- 
tasked  by  severe  discipline,  and  almost  unconscious 
of  its  own  power.  His  productions  were  all  hasty 
and  unstudied,  given  to  the  press  without  revision — 
without  a  signature,  and  with  nothing  but  their  in- 
trinsic worth  to  recommend  them  to  public  favor. 
Much  allowance  should  be  made  for  the  circumstan- 
ces under  which  they  were  written.  Whoever  has 
had  an  experimental  knowledge  of  the  editorial  life, 
will  acknowledge  the  extreme  difficulty  of  giving  uni- 
form polish  and  beauty  to  the  orig  ii  I  columns  of  a 
newspaper.  The  mind  revolts  at  the  idea  of  a  week- 
ly task, — a  defined  and  steadily  exacted  labor  of  in- 
tellect. In  the  intellectual  temperament  of  genius 
there  are  seasons  ot  listlessness  and  inactivity — when 
the  bent  bow  relaxes  from  its  tension  —when  in  the 
language  of  Sterne,  "  the  thoughts  rise  heavy  and  pass 
gummous  through  the  pen."  To  write  at  such  times 
for  the  edification  or  amasem'int  of  othsrs  is,  at  least, 
a  painful  and  unnatural  effort.  It  is  like  exacting 
responses  from  the  Pythoness  when  deprived  of  her 
I   tripod. 

I  Yet,  notwithstanding  the  difficulties  and  disadvan- 
I  tages  under  which  most  of  the  poems  in  this  volume 
I  were  written — unpolished  and  unconnected  as  they 
>  are,  by  the  mind  which  conceived  them,  they  are 
iuch  as  would  do  honor  to  "  longer  scrolls  and  kjftier 


34 

lyres."  They  have  certainly  the  qualities  of  genuine 
poetry.  Study  and  revision  might  have  polished  and 
developed  more  fully  their  native  colorings,  but  could 
have  added  little  to  their  intrinsic  excellence. 

The  longest  poem  in  this  collection  is  the  Address 
to  Connecticut  River.  It  is  a  specimen  of  beauti- 
ful description.  Its  versification  is  easy  and  flowing, 
without  the  chiming  monotony  of  the  old  school  wri- 
ters in  their  use  of  the  same  measure.  The  thoughts 
are  perfectly  natural.  The  images  pass  before  us 
like  old  and  familiar  friends.  We  have  seen  and 
known  them  all  before  :  not  in  books,  but  in  the  great 
open  volume  of  nature.  The  paragraph  commenc- 
ing, 

"  And  there  are  glossy  curls  and  sunny  eyes, 
As  brightly  lit,  and  bluer  than  thy  skies," 

is  a  splendid  picture :  the  master's  hand  is  distinctly 
visible.  There  is  nothing  dim,  or  shadowy  or  mea- 
gre in  its  outlines, — it  is  the  pencilling  of  a  Leonardo 
de  Vinci,  full  of  life  and  vigor  and  beauty. 

There  is  much  of  the  true  spirit  of  the  old  English 
Ballads  in  the  Black  Fox,  Matchit  Moodus,  the  Shad 
Spirit,  and  other  poems  of  this  description.  His 
graver  poems  are,  however  more  worthy  of  eulogi- 
um,  although  from  the  majority  of  his  readers  they 
may  have  met  with  a  less  cordial  reception.  But  in 
truth  the  mind  tires  of  continual  solemnity  and 
gloom — and  it  is  perhaps  better  to  laugh  occasionally 
over  the  designs  of  Hogarth  than  to  sup  full  of  hor- 
rors with  Salvator  Rosa.  Brainard's  humor  is,  in 
fact,  the  mere  sportiveness  of  innocence. 


35 

There  is  one  important  merit  in  his  poetry  which 
would  redeem  a  tliousand  faults.  It  is  wholly  Amer- 
ican. If  he  "  babbles  o'  green  fields"  and  trees  they 
are  such  as  of  right  belong  to  us.  He  does  not  talk 
of  the  palms  and  cypress  where  he  should  describe  the 
rough  oak  and  sombre  hemlock.  He  prefers  the 
lowliest  blossom  of  Yankee-land  to  the  gorgeous 
magnolia  and  the  orange  bower  of  another  clime. 
It  is  this  which  has  made  his  poetry  popular  and  his 
name  dear  in  New-England. 

It  has  been  often  said  that  the  New  World  is  defi- 
cient in  the  elements  of  poetry  and  romance  ;  that  its 
bards  must  of  necessity  linger  over  the  classic  ruins 
of  other  lands;  and  draw  their  sketches  of  character 
from  foreign  sources,  and  paint  Nature  under  the 
soft  beauty  of  an  Eastern  sky.  On  the  contrary, 
New-England  is  full  of  Romance ;  and  her  writers 
would  do  well  to  follow  the  example  of  Brainard. 
The  great  forest  which  our  fathers  penetrated — the 
red  men — their  struggle  and  their  disappearnce — the 
Powwow  and  the  War-dance — the  savage  inroad  and 
the  English  sally — the  tale  of  superstition,  and  the 
scenes  of  Witchcraft, — all  these  are  rich  materials  of 
poetry.  We  have  indeed  no  classic  vale  of  Tempe — 
no  haunted  Parnassus — no  temple,  gray  with  years, 
and  hallowed  by  the  gorgeous  pageantry  of  idol  wor- 
ship— no  towers  and  castles  over  whose  moonlight 
ruins  gathers  the  green  pall  of  the  ivy.  But  we  have 
mountains  pilloring  a  sky  as  blue  as  that  which  bend* 
over  classic  Olympus :   streams  as  bright  and  beauti- 


ful  as  those  of  Greece  or  Italy, — and  forests  richer 
and  nobler  than  those  which  of  old  were  haunted  by 
Sylph  and  Dryad. 

The  moral  tone  of  the  poems  in  this  collection  is 
certainly  deserving  of  high  commendation,  in  an  age, 
which  has  been  poisoned  by  the  licentiousness  of  po- 
etry,— by  the  school  of  Moore  and  Byron  and  Shel- 
ley,— to  say  nothing  of  their  thousand  imitators. 

There  would  seem  to  be  a  strong  temptation  at- 
tending the  process  of  poetical  composition  to  give 
imagination  the  legitimate  place  of  truth :  to  make 
boldness  and  originality  the  primary  objects  at  the 
expense  of  virtuous  sentiment  and  religious  feeling. 
But  who  that  peruses  the  Poems  of  Brainard  will 
charge  him  with  having  obeyed  this  general  tenden- 
cy. Playfulness  and  humor  they  may  indeed  find, — 
but  no  irreverence  ;  no  licentious  description ;  no 
daring  revolt  of  the  dust  and  ashes  of  humanity 
against  the  wisdom  and  power  of  the  Creator. 

There  is  a  deep  religious  feeling  evinced  in  the 
lines  commencing:  "All  sights  are  fair  to  the  recov- 
ered blind." — The  last  stanza  seems  to  breathe  the 
melodious  murmurs  of  the  harp  of  Zion : 

'Tis  somewhat  like  the  burst  from  death  to  life ; 

From  the  grave's  cerements  to  the  robes  of  Heaven  ; 
From  sin's  dominion,  and  from  passion's  strife 

To  the  pure  freedom  of  a  soul  forgiven ! 

When  all  the  bonds  of  death  and  hell  are  riven. 
And  mortals  put  on  immortality ; 

When  fear,  and  care,  and  grief  away  are  driven. 
And  Mercy's  hand  has  turned  the  golden  key, 
And  Mercy's  voice  has  said,  "  Rejoice — thy  soul  ia  free  !" 


SKETCH 

OF  AN  OCCURRENCE  ON  BOARD  A  BRIG. 
I. 

The  sun's  beam  and  the  moon's  beam  check  the  sea, 

The  Ught  wave  smiles  in  both,  and  sportingly 

Catching  the  silver  on  its  deep  blue  side, 

Throws  it  in  spangles  on  the  westering  tide, 

And  tints  the  golden  edges  of  the  beam 

That  last  and  sweetest  trembles  on  the  stream ; 

For  sure  'tis  moonlight — see  the  sun  give  way, 

And  yon  fair  orb  light  up  another  day, 

A  calmer,  softer  morning  than  the  hour 

Of  real  morn,  howe'er  bedeck'd  with  flower, 

Or  bud,  or  song,  or  dew-drop — the  sun's  feast. 

Or  all  the  gorgeous  glories  of  the  East. 

What  boat  is  that  '■  yon  lonely  little  boat. 
Sculling  and  rippJmg  through  the  shades,  that  float 
On  yon  sequester'd  bay,  and  mark  the  trees, 
Bending  so  beautifully  in  the  breeze. 

4 


38 

It  steals  from  out  the  shade,  and  now  the  tide 
Presses  its  bow  and  chafes  against  its  side  ; 
She  seems  to  wear  her  way  with  httle  strength, 
Feeble,  but  yet  determin'd,  'till  at  length 
The  skiff  comes  near  and  nearer — "  boat  ahoy  ! 
What  scull  is  that,  and  who  are  you  my  ,boy  ?" 

11. 

There  is  a  tear  in  that  young,  sullen  eye, 

That  looks  not  like  a  boy's  tear,  soon  to  dry  ; 

There  is  a  tremor  on  his  lip  and  chin, 

A  mix'd  up  look — half  feeling  and  half  sin. — 

Panting  with  toil  or  anger,  now  he  stands 

Upon  the  deck,  and  wrings  his  blister'd  hands, 

Too  proud  to  weep, — too  young  to  wear  the  face 

Of  manhood  steel'd  to  danger,  pain,  disgrace  ; 

There  was  in  lip,  and  cheek,  and  brow  and  eye, 

A  gesture  of  each  thought's  variety. 

While  leaning  sadly  'gainst  the  vessel's  wale, 

He  told,  in  broken  words,  a  common  tale. 

He  was  a  runaway, — had  left  the  ahore, 

Stolen  a  boat,  a  jacket,  and  an  oar. 

And  come  on  board  our  brig,  "  in  hopes  that  we, 

(He  said)  would  take  him  with  us  out  to  sea." 

The  captain  hush'd  at  once  the  poor  boy's  fears : 

— We  want  a  cabin  boy — dry  up  your  tesirs ; 


39 

The  wind  calls  for  us,  spread  the  loftiest  sail. 
And  catch  the  top-most  favor  of  the  gale ; 
The  tide  sets  out,  the  ocean's  on  the  lea, 
Gaily  we'll  plough  our  furrow  thro'  the  sea. 

III. 

The  eye,  the  ear,  the  nostril  and  the  heart, 
How  they  do  snuff  and  listen,  gaze  and  start. 
When  the  brave  vessel  strains  each  brace  and  line, 
Mounts  the  mad  wave,  and,  dashing  thro'  its  brine, 
Flies  from  the  thick'ning  anger  of  the  spray. 
And  doubly  swift  leaps  forward  on  her  way  ; 
While  the  keen  seaman  takes  his  w^atchful  stand, 
And  feels  the  tiller  tremble  in  his  hand — 
Or  lash'd  securely  on  the  sea-wash'd  side, 
Heaves  lead,  or  log,  and  sings  how  fast  they  glide. 

But  that  young  boy.     I  think  I  see  him  now. 
With  death  upon  his  eye-lid  and  his  brow ; 
That  eye  so  blue  and  clear,  that  forehead  fair, 
Those  ringlets  of  bright,  close-curl'd,  glossy  hair. 
That  hectic  flush,  which  to  the  last  grew  bright. 
As  his  next  world's  young  dawning  grew  more  light 
Yes  !  that  young  boy — the  danger  and  the  pain 
Of  hardships  past — the  thought  that  ne'er  again 
His  foot  might  press  the  paths  his  boyhood  lov'd, 
Or  his  hand  lift  the  latchet  unreprov'd, 


40 

His  ear  hear  sweet  forgivness — or  his  eye 

See  those  he  lov'd  even  from  his  infancy, 

And  then  the  giddy  whirl  of  his  young  brain, 

Upon  the  rushing,  changing,  tumbling  main. 

Without  a  friend  to  look  at,  by  his  side. 

He  wept,  and  said  his  prayers,  and  groan'd  and  died, 

IV. 

.  They  plung'd  him,  when  the  winds  were  up,  and  when 
The  sharks  pla/d  round  this  floating  home  of  men  ; 
When  the  strain'd  timbers  groan'd  in  every  wave, 
And  the  rough  cordage  scream'd  above  his  grave  ; 
When  the  wild  winds  wove  many  a  sailor's  shroud 
Of  darkness  in  the  red-edg'd  thunder  cluud  ^ 
While  in  the  dread  black  pauses  of  the  storm. 
The  stunn'd  ear  heard  his  moan,  the  shut  eye  saw  hi^ 

form. 
Had  it  been  calm — had  dolphins  play'd  in  rings, 
And  flying  fishes  sunn'd  their  wetted  wings  ; 
Had  the  sweet  south  but  breath'd  to  smooth  the  sea. 
And  evening,  for  one  hour,  look'd  tranquilly  ; 
Or  had  some  tomb-like  iceberg  floated  on 
The  spot,  as  the  retiring  sun  went  down, 
Or  the  black  Peteril  on  mid-ocean's  surge 
Sung  to  the  Albatross  the  poor  boy's  dirge, — < 


^ 


41 

One  might  have  blest  the  far  off,  long  lost  spot 
Where  to  the  deepest  depths  he  sunk  and  was  forgot. 
Silent  they  bore  him  to  the  vessel's  side, 
Silent  the  hammock  and  the  rope  they  ey'd, 
With  thoughtful  look,  a  moment  there  they  stood, 
And  gaz'd  an  instant  on  the  yawning  flood ; 
A  sailor's  prayer,  a  sailor's  tear,  were  all 
They  had  to  give  him,  but  a  sailor's  pall — 
They  plung'd  him  in  the  water,  and  the  shark 
Plung'd  after  him,  dowif,  down,  into  the  dark. 

V. 

On  rolls  the  storm,  once  more  the  sky  is  blue, 
And  there  is  mirth  among  the  hardy  crew  ; 
.  The  port  is  gain'd,  the  vessel  waits  the  breeze 
"^o  bear  her  once  again  o'er  tides  and  seas 
Back  to  her  home  :  our  native  hills  once  more 
Send  the  land  breezes  from  the  well  known  shore, 
And,  as  the  joys  and  pains  of  memory  come. 
The  question'd  pilot  tells  us  news  of  home. 

Once  more  upon  the  land  ! — What  sweet  eyed  girl 
With  long  bright  locks,  clustered  in  many  a  curl 
Round  her  white  polish'd  forehead,  sits  alone 
In  anxious  sadness  on  yon  wave  wash'd  stone  ! 
Her  eye  looks  searchingly  from  face  to  face, 

One  long  sought  look  or  lineament  to  trace^ 

4* 


42 

In  vain  the  ear  grates  to  each  loud  rough  cry 
Of  boisterous  welcome,  or  of  coarse  reply. 
In  vain  that  hand  is  stretcli'd  his  hand  to  grasp, 
In  vain  those  arms  his  well  lov'd  form  to  clasp  ; 
A  few  shrill  piercing  words — 'twas  all  she  said 
"  O  tell  me,  is  my  brother" — "he  is  dead." — 
As  the  struck  bird  will  rise  upon  the  wing. 
And  whirl  aloft  in  agonizing  swing, 
Then,  seek  the  darkest  covert  of  the  wood 
"To  pant,  and  bleed,  and  die  in  solitude. — 
That  fair  form  flitted  to  the  forest  shade 
Where  sank  and  died  alone,  the  broken  hearted  maid. 


JERUSALEM. 

The  following  paragraph  from  the  Mercantile  Advertiser,  sug- 
gested the  lines  below  it. 

The  following  intelligence  from  Constantinople  is  of  the  11th 
ult. — "A  severe  earthquake  is  said  to  have  taken  place  at  Jeru- 
salem, which  has  destroyed  great  part  of  that  city,  shaken  down 
the  Mosque  of  Omar,  and  reduced  the  Holy  Sepulchre  to  ruins 
from  top  to  bottom." 

Four  lamps  were  burning  o'er  two  mighty  graves — 
Godfrey's  and  Baldwin's — Salem's  Christian  kings ; 

And  holy  hght  glanc'd  from  Helena's  naves, 
l^^:      Fed  with  the  incense  which  the  Pilgrim  brings, — 
While  through  the  pannell'd  roof  the  ceder  flings 

Its  sainted  arms  o'er  choir,  and  roof,  and  dome, 
And  every  porphyry-pillar'd  cloister  rings 

To  everv'  kneeler  there  its  "welcome  home," 

As  every  lip  breathes  out,  "O  Lord,  thy  kingdom  come.' 

A  mosque  was  garnish'd  with  its  crescent  moons, 
And  a  clear  voice  call'd  Mussulmans  to  prayer. 
There  were  the  splendours  of  Judea's  thrones — 

t  There  were  the  trophies  which  its  conqueors  wear — 
All  but  the  truth,  the  holy  truth,  was  there: — 


44 

For  there,  with  lip  profane,  the  crier  stood, 

And  him  from  the  tall  minaret  you  might  hear, 
Singing  to  all  whose  steps  had  thither  trod, 
That  verse  misunderstood,  "  There  is  no  God  but  God. 
Ilark  !  did  the  Pilgrim  tremble  as  he  kneel'd  ? 

And  did  the  turbarr'd  Turk  his  sins  confess  ? 
Those  mighty  hands,  the  elements  that  wield 

That  mighty  power  that  knows  to  curse  or  bless, 

Is  over  all ;  and  in  whatever  dress 
His  suppliants  crowd  around  him,  He  can  see 

Their  heart,  in  city  or  in  wilderness. 
And  probe  its  core,  and  make  its  blindness  see 
That  He  is  very  God,  the  only  Deity. 

There  was  an  earthquake  once  that  rent  thy  fane. 
Proud  Julian  ;  when  (against  the  prophecy 

Of  Him  who  liv'd,  and  died,  and  rose  again, 
"That  one  stone  on  another  should  not  lie,") 
Thou  would'st  rebuild  that  Jewish  masonry 

To  mock  the  eternal  word. — The  earth  below 
Gush'd  out  in  fire  ;  and  from  the  brazen  sky. 

And  from  the  boiling  seas  such  wrath  did  flow. 

As  saw  not  Shinar's  plain,  nor  Babel's  ovethrow. 

Another  earthquake  comes.     Dome,  roof,  and  wall 

Tremble  ;  and  headlong  to  the  grassy  bank, 
And  in  the  muddied  stream  the  fragments  fall, 


45 

While  the  rent  chasm  spread  its  jaws,  and  drank 
At  one  huge  draught,  the  sediment,  which  sank 

In  Salem's  drained  goblet.     Mighty  Power ! 
Thou  whom  we  all  should  worship,  praise,  and  thank, 

^VTiere  was  thy  mercy  in  that  awful  hour, 

When  hell  mov'd  from  beneath,  and  thine  own  heaven  did 
lower? 

SaJ",  Pilate's  palaces — say,  proud  Herod's  towers — 

Say,  gate  of  Betlilehem,  did  your  arches  quake? 
Thy  pool,  Bethesda,  was  it  fill'd  with  show'rs? 

Calm  Gihon,  did  the  jar  thy  waters  wake? 

Tomb  of  thee,  3/ary^ — Virgin — did  it  shake? 
Glow'd  thy  bought  field,  Aceldema,  with  blood? 

Where  were  the  shudderings  Calvary  might  make? 
Did  sainted  Mount  Moriah  send  a  flood. 
To  wash  away  the  spot  where  once  a  God  had  stood? 

Lost  Salem  of  the  Jews — ^great  sepulchre 

Of  all  profane  and  of  all  holy  things — 
Where  Jew,  and  Turk,  and  Gentile  yet  concur 

To  make  thee  what  thou  art!  thy  history  brings 

Thoughts  mix'd  ot  joy  and  wo.     The  whole  earth 
rings 

With  the  sad  truth  wliich  He  has  prophesied, 

Who  would  have  shelter'd  with  his  holy  wings 

Thee  and  thy  children.      You  his  power  defied: 


46 

You  scoiirg'd  him  while  he  Uv'd,  and  mock'd  him  as  he 
died! 

There  is  a  star  in  the  untroubled  sky, 

That  caught  the  first  light  which  its  Maker  made — 
It  led  the  hymn  of  other  orbs  on  high; — 

'Twill  shine  when  all  the  fires  of  heaven  shall  fade. 

Pilgrims  at  Salem's  porch,  be  that  your  aid! 
For  it  has  kept  its  watch  on  Palestine ! 

Look  to  its  holy  light,  nor  be  dismay'd. 
Though  broken  is  each  consecrated  shrine, 
Though  crush'd  and  ruin'd  all — which  men  have  call'd 
divine. 

Note  to  the  Verses. — Godfrey  and  Baldwin  were  the  first 
Christian  Kings  at  Jerusaiein.  The' Empress  Helenji,  mother  t»f 
Constantino  the  Great,  built  the  c/iwrf  A  of  the  sepulchre  on  Mount 
Calvary.  The  walls  are  of  stone  and  the  roof  of  cedar.  The 
lour  lamps  which  light  it  are  very  costly.  It  is  kept  in  repair  by 
the  offerings  of  Pilgrims  who  resort  to  it.  The  Mosque  was  orig- 
inalljLa  Jewish  Temple.  The  Emperor  Julian  inidertook  to  re- 
build the  temple  of  Jerusalem  at  very  great  expense,  to  disprove 
the  prophecy  of  our  Saviour,  as  it  was  understood  by  the  Jews ;  but 
the  work  and  the  workmen  were  destroyed  by  an  earthquake. 
The  pools  of  Bethesda  and  Gihon — the  tomb  of  the  Virgin  Mary, 
and  of  King  Jehoshaphat — the  pillar  of  Absalom,  the  tomb  of  Zac- 
hariah — and  the  campo  santo,  or  holy  field,  which  is  supposed  to 
have  been  purchased  with  the  price  of  Judas'  treason,  are,  or' 
were  lately,  the  most  interesting  parts  of  Jerusalem. 


MATCHIT  MOODUS. 

A  traveller,  who  accidentally  passed  through  East  Haddam, 
made  several  inquiries  as  to  the  Moodus  noises,  that  are  peculiar 
to  that  part  of  the  country.  Many  particulars  were  related  to 
him  of  their  severity  and  effects,  and  of  the  means  that  had  been 
taken  to  ascertain  their  cause,  and  prevent  their  recurrence  He 
was  told  that  the  sunple  and  terrified  inhabitants,  in  the  early 
settlement  of  the  town,  applied  to  a  book-learned  and  erudite 
man /rom  England,  by  the  name  of  Doctor  Steele,  who  undertook, 
by  magic,  to  allay  their  terrors ;  and  for  this  purpose  took  the  sole 
charge  of  a  blacksmith's  shop,  in  which  he  worked  by  night,  and 
from  which  he  excluded  all  admission,  tightly  stopping  and  darken- 
ing the  place,  to  prevent  any  prying  curiosity  from  interfering  with 
his  occult  operations  He,  however,  so  far  explained  the  cause  of 
these  noises  as  to  say,  that  they  were  owing  to  a  carbuncle,  which 
must  have  grown  to  a  great  size,  in  the  bowels  of  the  rocks;  and 
that  if  it  could  be  removed,  the  noises  would  cease,  until  another 
should  grow  in  its  place.  The  noises  ceased — the  doctor  depart- 
ed, and  has  never  been  heard  of  since.  It  was  supposed  that  he 
took  the  carbuncle  with  him.  Thus  far  was  authentic.  A  little 
girl,  who  had  anxiously  noticed  the  course  of  the  traveller's  inqui- 
ries, sung  for  his  further  edification  the  following  ballad: 

See  you  upon  the  lonely  moor, 

A  crazy  building  rise? 
No  hand  dares  venture  to  open  the  door — 
No  footstep  treads  its  dangerous  floor — 

No  eye  in  its  secrets  pries. 


48 

Now  why  is  each  crevice  stopp'd  so  tight  ? 

Say,  why  the  bohed  door  ? 
Why  ghmmers  at  midnight  the  forge's  hght — 
All  day  is  the  anvil  at  rest,  but  at  night 

The  flames  of  the  furnace  roar  ? 

Is  it  to  arm  the  horse's  heel, 

That  the  midnight  anvil  rings  ? 
Is  it  to  mould  the  ploughshare's  steel, 
Or  is  it  to  guard  the  wagon's  wheel, 

That  the  smith's  sledge-hammer  swings  ? 

The  iron  is  bent,  and  the  crucible  stands 

With  alchymy  boiling  up  ; 
Its  contents  were  mix'd  by  unknown  hands, 
And  no  mortal  fire  e'er  kindled  the  brands, 

That  heated  that  corner'd  cup. 

O'er  Moodus  river  a  light  has  glanc'd, 

On  Moodus  hills  it  shone  ; 
On  the  granite  rocks  the  rays  have  danc'd, 
And  upward  those  creeping  lights  advanc'd. 

Till  they  met  on  the  highest  stone. 

O  that  is  the  very  wizard  place. 

And  now  is  the  wizard  hour. 
By  the  light  that  was  conjur'd  up  to  trace, 
Ere  the  star  that  falls  can  run  its  race, 

The  seat  of  the  earthquake's  power. 


49 

By  that  unearthly  Hght,  I  see 

A  figure  strange  alone — 
With  magic  circlet  on  his  knee, 
And  deck'd  with  Satan's  symbols,  he 

Seeks  for  the  hidden  stone.* 

*In  the  course  of  our  disultory  reading  we  have  noted  several 

1  testimonies  of  authors   and  travellers  relative  to  these   singular 

'  noises  in  the  mountains,  which  would  seem  almost  to  corrobo- 

orate  the  hypothesis  of  the  Matchit  Moodus  Alchymist.     Vas- 

CONCELLOS,  a  Jesuit  of  some   repute,   describes  similar  noises 

which  he  heard  in  Brazil.     They   resembled   the   discharge   of 

hea\'y  artillery.    In  the  Terra  de   Piratumingo  the  Indians  told 

j  him  that  the   noise  he  heard  was  an  explosion  of  stones; — "and 

j  it  was  so"  said  he   "  for  after  some  days  the  place  was  found 

I  where  a  rock  had  burst,  and  from  its   entrails   with  the  report 

I  which  we  had  heard  like  groans,  had   sent  forth  a  little  treasure. 
This  was  a  sort  of  nut,  about  the  size  of  a  bull's  heart — full  of 
I  jewelry  of  different  colors,  some  white — some  transparent  chrys- 
tal,  others  of  a  fine  red  and  some  between  red  and  white,  imper- 
fect as  it  seemed.     AU  these  Avere  placed  in  order  like  the  grains 
of  a  pomegranite  within  a  case  or  shell  harder  than  iron  which 
was  broken  to  pieces  by  the  explosion."     In  speaking  of  the  ad- 
joining province  of  Guayra,  Techo  says  it  is  famous  for  a  sort  of 
stones  which  nature   after  a  wonderful  manner  produces  in  an 
1  oval  stone  case,  about  the  bigness  of  a  man's  head : — these  stones 
lying  under  ground  until  they  arrive  to  a  certain  maturity,  fly 
I  like  bombs  in  pieces  about  the  air,  with  much  noise.     In  an  old 
'  account  of  Teixeira's  voyage  down  the  Orellana,  the  writer  says 

5 


50 

Now  upward  goes  that  gray  old  man, 

With  mattock,  bar  and  spade — 
The  summit  is  gain'd,  and  the  toil  began, 
And  deep  by  the  rock  where  the  wild  lights  ran, 

The  magic  trench  is  made. 

Loud  and  yet  louder  was  the  groan 

That  sounded  wide  and  far ; 
And  deep  and  hollow  was  the  moan. 
That  roll'd  around  the  bedded  stone. 

Where  the  workman  plied  his  bar. 

that  the  Indians  assured  them,  that,  horrible  noises  were  heard 
in  the  Lena  do  Paraguaxo  from  time  to  time,  which  is  a  certain 
eign  that  this  mountain  contains  stones  of  great  value  in  its  en- 
trails." HuMEOLT  himself  notices  this  phenomenon  as  occurring  | 
in  the  hills  near  Mexico, — a  subteraneous  noise  like  the  roar  of 
artillery.  As  coal  abounds  in  those  hills,  he  enquires  whether 
this  does  not  announce  a  disengagement  of  hydrogen  produced 
by  a  bed  of  coal  in  a  state  of  inflammation.  In  the  account  of 
the  "Yellow  Stone  Expedition"  of  Lewis  and  Clark  in  1804 — 
1805  and  1806,  we  are  told  that  near  the  falls  of  the  Missouri 
several  loud  reports  were  heard  among  the  mountains  resembling 
precisely  the  report  of  a  six  pounder.  The  Indians  had  before 
told  them  of  these  noises.  The  Pawnee  and  Ricaras  tribes  of 
Indians  also  told  the  exploring  party  that  a  similar  noise  was 
frequently  heard  among  the  mountains  to  the  westward  of  their 
country,  which  was  caused  they  said  by  the  bursting  of  the  rich 
mines  confined  in  the  bosom  of  the  earth. — Editor. 


61 

Then  upward  stream'd  the  brilliant's  light, 
It  stream'd  o'er  crag"and  stone  : — 

Dim  look'd  the  stars,  and  the  moon,  that  night ; 

But  when  morning  came  in  her  glory  bright. 
The  man  and  the  jewel  were  gone. 

But  wo  to  the  bark  in  which  he  flew 

From  Moodus'  rocky  shore  ; 
Wo  to  the  Captain,  and  wo  to  the  crew. 
That  ever  the  breath  of  life  they  drew. 

When  that  dreadful  freight  they  bore. 

Where  is  that  crew  and  vessel  now  ? 

Tell  me  their  state  who  can  ? 
The  wild  waves  dash  o'er  their  sinking  bow — 
Down,  down  to  the  fathomless  depths  they  go, 
To  sleep  with  a  sinful  man. 

The  carbuncle  lies  in  the  deep,  deep  sea, 

Beneath  the  mighty  wave  ; 
But  the  light  shines  upward  so  gloriously. 
That  the  sailor  looks  pale  and  forgets  his  glee, 

When  he  crosses  the  wizard's  grave. 


STANZAS. 

The  dead  leaves  strew  the  forest  walk, 

And  wither'd  are  the  pale  wild  flowers  ; 
The  frost  hangs  black'ning  on  the  stalk, 

The  dew  drops  fall  in  frozen  showers. 

Gone  are  the  Spring's  green  sprouting  bow'rs» 
Gone  Summer's  rich  and  mantling  vines. 

And  Autumn,  with  her  yellow  hours,  4 

On  hill  and  plain  no  longer  shines. 

I  learn'd  a  clear  and  wild-ton'd  note. 

That  rose  and  swell'd  from  yonder  tree — 
A  gay  bird,  with  too  sweet  a  throat. 

There  perch'd  and  rais'd  her  song  for  me. 

The  winter  comes,  and  where  is  she  ? 
Away — where  summer  wings  will  rove. 

Where  buds  are  fresh,  and  every  tree 
Is  vocal  with  the  notes  of  love. 

Too  mild  the  breath  of  southern  sky, 
Too  fresh  the  flower  that  blushes  there, 

The  northern  breeze  that  rustles  by, 

Finds  Leaves  too  green,  and  buds  too  fair ; 


53  • 

No  forest  tree  stands  stript  and  bare, 
No  stream  beneath  the  ice  is  dead, 

No  mountain  top  with  sleety  hair 
Bends  o'er  the  snows  its  reverend  head. 

Go  there,  with  all  the  birds, — and  seek 

A  happier  clime,  with  livelier  flight, 
Kiss,  with  the  sun,  the  evening's  cheek, 

And  leave  me  lonely  with  the  night. 

— I'll  gaze  upon  the  cold  north  light, 
And  mark  where  all  its  glories  shone — 

See — that  it  all  is  fair  and  bright, 
Feel — that  it  all  is  cold  and  gone. 


THE  INVALID 

ON    THE    EAST    END    OF    LONG    ISLAND. 

Feeble,  with  languid,  staff-supported  step 
And  heavy  eye  and  heavier  heart,  I  tread 
The  sun-scorch'd  sand,  and  breathe  the  sultry  air 
That  hovers  on  the  road.     One  effort  more. 
One  mile  or  two  at  most,  and  then  I  stand 
Where  I  can  feel  the  balmy  breath  of  heaven. 
The  grassy  lane,  o'er  arch'd  with  boughs  and  leave* 

6* 


•  54 

Runs  its  green  vista  to  a  small  bright  pointy 
And  thart  point  is  the  ocean.     Faint  the  limbs, 
And  all  the  body  tires — ^but  for  the  soul 
It  hath  its  holiday  in  such  a  spot. 

A  moment  rest. we  on  the  only  stone 
In  all  the  alley — wipe  the  sweating  brow 
And  drop  the  eye  upon  the  turf  around. 

The  notes  of  birds  are  heard  in  other  groves 
And  every  where  are  welcome,  for  the  song 
Of  gladness  and  of  innocence  is  sweet 
To  all.     But  here  and  to  the  weary  too 
'Tis  exquisite  :  for  with  it  comes  the  sound, 
Not  of  the  wind-fann'd  leaves  and  rustling  boughs 
And  wavy  tree  tops  only — but  the  voice 
Of  ocean. 

He  has  heard  its  mighty  sound 
Whose  bark  was  on  its  awful  waters  when 
The  billows  swept  the  deck  and  rioted, 
Mix'd  with  the  winds,  round  all  its  gallant  spars. 
He  too  has  heard  its  moanings,  who,  becalm'd 
Lies  like  a  small  thing,  helpless  and  alone 
Upon  a  rolling  waste  immensity. 
And  he  has  heard  another  tone,  who  marks 
Its  furious  dance  among  the  leeward  rocks 
Where  he  must  bear  its  ravings  o'er  his  bones- 


65 

But  in  this  calm  and  leafy  grove,  the  sound 
Is  smoother,  softer,  sweeter,  than  the  harp 
That  the  winds  love  to  play  on.     Let  us  rise 
And  view  the  Giant  that  can  tune  his  voice 
Jo  every  passion — that  can  touch  each  chord 
That  vibrates  in  a  saint's  or  sinner's  hieart. 
— But  to  the  shore.     O  !  what  a  depth  of  wave 
And  what  a  length  of  foam  !  That  solemn  voice  ! 
'Tis  louder  and  yet  sweeter — They  mistake 
Who  call  it  hoarse — They  never  on  the  white 
And  pebbly  beach  in  peace  and  quietness 
Have  heard  it  roar — or  watch'd  the  spray 
That  venturing  farthest  on  the  smooth  white  sand 
Kisses,  retires  and  comes  to  kiss  again. 

•  Upon  the  utmost  bound,  a  clear  white  jet 
Of  water,  from  the  dark  green  wave,  betray 
The  sporting  of  the  whale  ;  and  nearer  shore. 
The  sea  birds  rise  upon  their  wetted  wings 
And  bear  tlieir  prey  far  to  their  lonely  nests. 

The  sun  sets — and  the  blushing  water  turns 
To  a  blue,  star  spread,  foam-tip'd,  wavy  sea 
Of  beauty.     Yonder  sweeps  a  brave  white  sail 
Bending  as  gracefully  in  evening's  breeze 
As  a  keen  skater  on  the  glassy  ice. 
And  now — even  as  some  hospitable  man 


56 

Will  light  his  going  guest  into  the  path, 

And  bid  God  bless  him,  as  he  speeds  his  way 

Onward,  alone,  into  the  untried  dark ; 

The  Lighthouse — last  of  friends  that  ship  may  see 

Points  out  the  course  till  far  beyond  its  beam 

The  sea  fire  of  the  ocean  only  shines. 

Away  from  all  that's  bright  and  beautiful, 

From  the  fresh  breeze  and  from  the  glorious  view, 

From  all  that's  Jovely,  noble,  or  sublime, 

To  the  sick  pillow  and  the  feverish  bed. 

There  may  good  angels  watch  me  and  good  thoughts 

Crowd  to  my  dreaming  and  my  waking  hours, 

For  the  whole  world  of  waters,  the  firm  hand, 

The  canopy  with  all  its  suns  and  stars, 

Its  bright  unnumbered  systems,  all  are  His, 

And  He  is  every  where. 


THE  STORM  OF  WAR. 

O  !  once  was  felt  the  storm  of  war  ! 

It  had  an  earthtjuake's  roar, 
It  flash'd  upon  the  mountain  height. 

And  smok'd  along  the  shore. 


67 

It  thunder'd  in  a  dreaming  ear, 

And  up  the  Farmer  sprang  ; 
It  mutter'd  in  a  bold  true  heart, 

And  a  warriors  harness  rang. 

It  rumbled  by  a  widow's  door, — 

All  but  her  hope  did  fail : 
It  trembled  through  a  leafy  grove, 

And  a  maiden's  cheek  was  pale. 
It  steps  upon  the  sleeping  sea, 

And  waves  around  it  howl ; 
It  strides  from  top  to  foaming  top  » 

Out-frowning  ocean's  scowl. 

And  yonder  sai^d  the  merchant  ship — 

There  was  peace  upon  her  deck  ; 
— Her  friendly  flag  from  the  mast  was  torn. 

And  the  waters  whelm'd  the  wreck. 
But  the  same  blast  that  bore  her  do%vn 

Fill'd  a  gallant  daring  sail. 
That  lov'd  the  might  of  the  blackning  storm 

And  laugh'd  in  the  roaring  gale. 

The  stream,  that  was  a  torrent  once. 

Is  rippled  to  a  brook, 
The  sword  is  broken,  and  the  spear 

Is  but  a  pruning  hook. 


68 

The  mother  chides  her  truant  boy, 
And  keeps  him  well  from  harm ; 

While  in  the  grove  the  happy  maid 
Hangs  on  her  lover's  arm. 

Another  breeze  is  on  the  sea. 

Another  vi^ave  is  there, 
And  floats  abroad  triumphantly, 

A  banner  bright  and  fair. 
And  peaceful  hands  and  happy  hearts. 

And  gallant  spirits  keep 
Each  star  that  decks  it  pure  and  bright, 

Above  the  rolling  deep. 
July  4th,  1827. 


TO  THE  CONNECTICUT  RIVER. 

From  that  lone  lake,  the  sw^eetest  of  the  chain 
That  links  the  mountain  to  the  mighty  main. 
Fresh  from  the  rock  and  swelling  by  the  tree. 
Rushing  to  meet  and  dare  and  breast  the  sea — 
Fair,  noble,  glorious  river  !  in  thy  wave 
The  sunniest  slopes  and  sweetest  pastures  lave ; 
The  mountain  torrent,  with  its  wintry  roar 
Springs  from  its  home  and  leaps  upon  thy  shore : 


59 

The  promontories  love  thee — and  for  this 

Turn  their  rough  cheeks  and  stay  thee  for  thy  kiss. 

Stern,  at  thy  source,  thy  northern  Guardians  staiwL 
Rude  rulers  of  the  solitary  land, 
Wild  dwellers  by  thy  cold  sequester'd  springs. 
Of  earth  the  feathers  and  of  air  the  wings  ; 
Their  blasts  have  rock'd  thy  cradle,  and  in  storm 
I  Cover'd  thy  couch  and  swath'd  in  snow  thy  form — 
Yet,  bless'd  by  all  the  elements  that  sweep 
The  clouds  above,  or  the  unfathom'd  deep, 
The  purest  breezes  scent  thy  blooming  hills, 
The  gentlest  dews  drop  on  thy  eddying  rills, 
I  By  the  moss'd  bank,  and  by  the  aged  tree, 
I  .The  silver  streamlet  smoothest  gUdes  to  thee. 

The  young  oak  greets  thee  at  the  water's  edge, 
I  Wet  by  the  wave,  though  anchor'd  in  the  ledge. 
— 'Tis  there  the  otter  dives,  the  beaver  feeds. 
Where  pensive  oziors  dip  their  willowy  weeds, 
And  there  the  wild  cat  purs  amid  her  brood, 
And  trains  them,  in  the  sylvan  solitude, 
To  watch  the  squirrel's  leap,  or  mark  the  mink 
Paddling  the  water  by  the  quiet  brink  ; — 
Or  to  out-gaze  the  grey  owl  in  the  dark, 
Or  hear  the  young  fox  practising  to  bark. 


60 

Dark  as  the  frost  nip'd  leaves  that  strew'd  the  ground, 
The  Indian  hunter  here  his  shelter  found ; 
Here  cut  his  bow  and  shap'd  his  arrows  true, 
Here  built  his  wigwam  and  his  bark  canoe, 
Spear'd  the  quick  salmon  leaping  up  the  fall, 
And  slew  the  deer  without  the  rifle  ball. 
Here  his  young  squaw  her  cradling  tree  would  choose 
Singing  her  chant  to  hush  her  swart  pappoose, 
Here  stain  her  quills  and  string  her  trinkets  rude, 
And  weave  her  warrior's  wampum  in  the  wood. 
— No  more  shall  they  thy  welcome  waters  bless, 
No  more  their  forms  thy  moonlit  banks  shall  press, 
No  more  be  heard,  from  mountain  or  from  grove. 
His  whoop  of  slaughter,  or  her  song  of  love. 

Thou  didst  not  shake,  thou  didst  not  shrink  when,  late 
The  mountain-top  shut  down  its  ponderous  gate. 
Tumbling  its  tree  grown  ruins  to  thy  side, 
An  avalanche  of  acres  at  a  slide. 
Nor  dost  thou  stay,  when  wintei''s  coldest  breath 
Howls  through  the  woods  and  sweeps  along  the  heath — 
One  mighty  sigh  relieves  thy  icy  breast 
And  wakes  thee  from  the  calmness  of  thy  rest. 

Down  sweeps  the  torrent  ice — it  may  not  stay 
By  rock  or  bridge,  in  narrow  or  in  bay — 


61 

Swift,  swifter  to  the  heaving  sea  it  goes 
And  leaves  thee  dimpling  in  thy  sweet  repose. 
— Yet  as  the  unharm'd  swallow  skims  his  way, 
And  lightly  drops  his  pinions  in  thy  spray, 
So  the  swift  sail  shall  seek  thy  inland  seas, 
And  swell  and  whiten  in  thy  purer  breeze. 
New  paddles  dip  thy  waters,  and  strange  oars 
Feather  thy  waves  and  touch  thy  noble  shores. 

Thy  nohle  shores  !  where  the  tall  steeple  shines, 
At  midday,  higher  than  thy  mountain  pines. 
Where  the  white  schoolhouse  with  its  daily  drill 
Of  sunburnt  children,  smiles  upon  the  hill, 
Where  the  neat  village  grows  upon  the  eye 
Deck'd  forth  in  nature's  sweet  simplicity — 
Where  hard-won  competence,  the  farmer's  wealth, 
Gains  merit,  honour,  and  gives  labour  health, 
Where  Goldsmith's  self  might  send  his  exil'd  band 
To  find  a  new  '  Sweet  Auburn'  in  our  land. 

"What  Art  can  execute  or  Taste  devise. 
Decks  thy  fair  course  and  gladdens  in  thine  eyes — 
As  broader  sweep  the  bendings  of  thy  stream, 
To  meet  the  southern  Sun's  more  constant  beam. 
Here  cities  rise,  and  sea-wash'd  commerce,  hails 
Thy  shores  and  winds  with  all  her  flapping  sails, 

6 


62 

From  Tropic  isles,  or  from  the  torrid  main — 
Where  grows  the  grape,  or  sprouts  the  sugar-cane — 
Or  from  the  haunts,  where  the  strip'd  haddock  play, 
By  each  cold  northern  bank  and  frozen  bay. 
Here  safe  return'd  from  every  stormy  sea. 
Waves  the  strip'd  flag,  the  mantle  of  the  free, 
— That  star-lit  flag,  by  all  the  breezes  curl'd 
Of  yon  vast  deep  whose  waters  grasp  the  world. 

In  what  Arcadian,  what  Utopian  ground 
Are  warmer  hearts  or  manlier  feelings  found, 
More  hospitable  welcome,  or  more  zeal 
To  make  the  curious  '  tarrying'  stranger  feel 
That,  next  to  home,  here  best  may  he  abide. 
To  rest  and  cheer  him  by,  the  chimney-side  ; 
Drink  the  hale  Farmer's  cider,  as  he  hears 
From  the  grey  dame  the  tales  of  other  years. 
Cracking  his  shagbarks,  as  the  aged  crone, 
Mixing  the  true  and  doubtful  into  one. 
Tells  how  the  Indian  scalp'd  the  helpless  child 
And  bore  its  shrieking  mother  to  the  wild, 
Butcher'd  the  father  hastening  to  his  home. 
Seeking  his  cottage — finding  but  his  tomb. 
How  drums  and  flags  and  troops  were  seen  on  high. 
Wheeling  and  charging  in  the  northern  sky, 
And  that  she  knew  what  these  wild  tokens  meant, 


63 

When  to  the  Old  French  War  her  husband  went. 
How,  by  the  thunder-blasted  tree,  was  hid 
The  golden  spoils  of  far  fam'd  Robert  Kidd  ; 
And  then  the  chubby  grand-child  wants  to  know 
About  the  ghosts  and  witches  long  ago, 
That  haunted  the  old  swamp. 

The  clock  strikes  ten — 
The  prayer  is  said,  nor  unforgotten  then 
The  stranger  in  their  gates.     A  decent  rule 
Of  Elders  in  thy  puritanic  school. 

When  the  fresh  morning  wakes  him  from  his  dreai}^, 
And  daylight  smiles  on  rock,  and  slope  and  stream. 
Are  there  not  glossy  curls  and  sunny  eyes. 
As  brightly  lit  and  bluer  than  thy  skies, 
Voices  as  gentle  as  an  echoed  call. 
And  sweeter  than  the  soften'd  waterfall 
That  smiles  and  dimples  in  its  whispering  spray, 
Leaping  in  sportive  innocence  away  :-r- 
And  lovely  forms,  as  graceful  and  as  gay 
As  wild-brier,  budding  in  an  April  day ; 
— How  like  the  leaves — the  fragrant  leaves  it  bears, 
Their  sinless  purposes  and  simple  cares. 

Stream  of  my  sleeping  Fathers  !  when  the  sound 
Of  coming  war  echo'd  thy  hills  around, 


64 


I 


How  did  thy  sons  start  forth  from  every  glade. 

Snatching  the  musket  where  they  lelt  the  spade.  li 

How  did  their  mothers  urge  them  to  the  fight, 

Their  sisters  tell  them  to  defend  the  riglit, — 

How  bravely  did  they  stand,  how  nobly  fall, 

The  earth  their  coffin  and  the  turf  their  pall. 

How  did  the  aged  pastor  light  his  eye, 

When,  to  his  flock,  he  read  the  purpose  high 

And  stern  resolve,  whate'er  the  toil  may  be. 

To  pledge  life,  name,  fame,  all — for  Liberty. 

— Cold  is  the  hand  that  penn'd  that  glorious  page — 

Still  in  the  grave  the  body  of  that  sage 

Whose  lip  of  eloquence  and  heart  of  zeal. 

Made  Patriots  act  and  listening  Statesmen  feel — 

Brought  thy  Green  Mountains  down  upon  their  foes. 

And  thy  white  summits  melted  of  their  snows. 

While  every  vale  to  which  his  voice  could  come, 

Rang  with  the  fife  and  echo'd  to  the  drum. 

Bold  River  !  better  suited  are  thy  waves 
To  nurse  the  laurels  clust'ring  round  their  graves, 
Than  many  a  distant  stream,  that  soakes  the  mud, 
Where  thy  brave  sons  have  shed  their  gallant  blood, 
And  felt,  beyond  all  other  mortal  pain, 
That  ne'er  should  see  their  happy  home  again.. 


65 

Thou  had'st  a  poet  once, — and  he  could  tell, 
Most  tunefully,  whate'er  to  thee  befell. 
Could  fill  each  pastoral  reed  upon  thy  shore — 
— But  we  shall  hear  his  classic  lays  no  more  ! 
He  lov'd  thee,  but  he  took  his  aged  way, 
By  Erie's  shore,  and  Perry's  glorious  day, 
To  where  Detroit  looks  out  amidst  the  wood. 
Remote  beside  the  dreary  sohtude. 

Yet  for  his  brow  thy  ivy  leaf  shall  spread, 
Thy  freshest  myrtle  lift  its  berried  head, 
And  our  gnarl'd  Charter  oak  put  forth  a  bough. 
Whose  leaves  shall  grace  thy  Trumbull's  honor'd  brow 


6* 


THE  MONEY  DIGGERS.* 

Thus  saith  The  Book — '  Permit  no  witph  to  live ;' 
Hence,  Massachusetts  hath  expell'd  the  race, 
Connecticut,  where  swap  and  dicker  thrive, 
AUow'd  not  to  their  foot  a  resting  place. 
With  more  of  hardihood  and  less  of  grace, 
Vermont  receives  the  sisters  grey  and  lean, 
Allows  each  witch  her  airy  broomstick  race. 
O'er  mighty  rocks  and  mountains  dark  with  green. 
Where  tempests  wake  their  voice,  and  torrents  roar  be- 
tween. 

"*  It  is  a  fact  that  two  men  from  Vermont,  are  now,  (July  11th, 
1827,)  working  by  the  side  of  one  of  the  wharves  in  New-London, 
for  buried  money,  by  the  advice  and  recommendation  of  an  old 
woman  of  that  state,  who  assured  them  that  she  could  distinctly 
see  a  box  of  dollars  packed  edge- wise.  The  locality  was  pointed 
out  to  an  inch,  and  her  only  way  of  discovering  the  treasure  was 
by  looking  through  a  stone,  which  to  ordinary  optics  was  hardly 
translucent.  For  the  story  of  the  Spanish  Galleon  that  left  so 
much  bullion  in  and  about  New-London,  see  Trumbull's  History 
of  Connecticut,  and  for  Kidd,  inquire  of  the  oldest  lady  you  can 
find. 


67 

And  one  there  was  among  that  wicked  crew 
To  whom  the  enemy  a  pebble  gave, 
Through  which,  at  long-ofF  distance,  she  might  view 
All  treasures  of  the  fathomable  wave, 
And  where  the  Thames'  bright  billows  gently  lave, 
The  grass-grown  piles  that  flank  the  ruin'd  wharf. 
She  sent  them  forth,  those  two  adventurers  brave, 
Where  greasy  citizens  their  bev'rage  quaff. 
Jeering  at  enterprize — ;aye  ready  with  a  laugh. 

They  came — those    straight-hair'd    honest    meaning 

men. 
Nor  question  ask'd  they,  nor  reply  did  make. 
Albeit  their  locks  were  lifted  like  as  when 
Young  Hamlet  saw  his  father.     And  the  shake 
Of  knocking  knees  and  jaws  that  seem'd  to  break, 
Told  a  wild  tale  of  undertaking  bold. 
While  as  the  oyster-tongs  the  chiels  did  take 
Dim  grew  the  sight,  and  every  blood  drop  cold, 
As  knights  in  scarce  romant  sung  by  the  bards  of  old. 

For  not  in  daylight  were  their  rites  perform'd. 
When  night-cap'd  heads  were  on  their  pillow  laid. 
Sleep-freed  from  biting  care,  by  thought  unharm'd, 
Snoring  e'er  word  was  spoke,  or  prayer  was  said — 
'Twas  then  the  mattock  and  the  busy  spade. 
The  pump,  the  bucket  and  the  windlass  rope, 


^ 


68 

In  busy  silence  plied  the  mystic  trade, 
While  resolution,  beckon'd  on  by  hope, 
Did  sweat  and  agonize  the  sought  for  chest  to  ope. 

Beneath  the  wave,  the  iron  chest  is  hot. 
Deep  growls  are  heard  and  read'ning  eyes  are  seen, 
Yet  of  the  Black  Dog  she  had  told  them  not, 
Nor  of  the  grey  wild  geese  with  eyes  of  green, 
That  scream'd  and  yell'd  and  hover'd  close  between 
The  buried  gold  and  the  rapacious  hand. 
Here  should  she  be,  tho'  mountains  intervene. 
To  scatter,  with  her  crook'd  witch-hazle  wand, 
The  wave-born  sprites  that  keep  their  treasure  from 
the  kind. 

She  cannot,  may  not  come,  the  rotten  wharf 
Of  mould'ring  planks  and  rusty  spikes  is  there. 
And  he  who  own'd  a  quarter  or  an  half 
Is  disappointed,  and  the  witch  is — where  ? 
Vermont  still  harbors  her — ^go  seek  her  there 
The  Grand  dame  of  Joe  Strickland — find  her  nest, 
Where  summer  icicles  and  snow  balls  are, 
Where  black  swans  paddle  and  where  Petrils  rest, 
Symmes  be  your  trusty  guide  and  Robert  Kidd  your 
guest. 


THE  SMACK  RACE. 

Are  they  not  beautiful !  how  Hght  they  float, 
How  gracefully  they  sit  upon  the  wave  I 

The  water  buoys  no  surer,  fleeter  boat, 
None  that  will  Ocean's  danger  better  brave. 
Forget  not  too,  that  sea-wash'd  barrens  gave 

A  hardy  race  to  man  each  brace  and  line, 

Warm  hearted  and  hard  handed — all  they  crave 
Is  but  to  seek  and  search  the  boist'rous  brine 

Where  Winters  have  no  sun,  and  north  lights  dimly  shine. 

Thames  !  on  thy  smiling  harbour  now 
How  dips  and  bends  each  lively  bow, 

As  pleas'd  to  wanton  there. 
And  need  they  longer  there  to  ride  ?  • 

The  time  is  come  and  fair  the  tide, 

The  wind  is  fresh  and  fair. 

Away  !  the  peak  is  trimly  set, 

The  jib  with  schoot-horn  duly  wet, 

The  trembling  helm  is  true, 
One  glass  of  grog,  one  signal  gun, 
Three  cheers  for  luck  and  one  for  fun, 

Which  is  the  happier  crew  ? 


70 

Over  the  broad,  the  blue,  the  clear, 
The  noble  harbour,  on  they  steer 

By  every  well  known  spot. 
In  sailor's  heart,  in  seabird's  cry, 
In  pilot's  thought,  in  poet's  eye. 

When  are  such  scenes  forgot.        ' 

I  love  them,  for  the  porpoise  plays 
In  all  their  bleach'd  and  pebbly  bays 

And  every  haunt  explores. — 
I  love  them,  that  the  hardy  breeze 
Sweeps  daily  from  the  healthful  seas 

Blessing  the  happy  shores. 


Now  tauter  brace  the  labouring  boom. 
Bring  the  lee  gunwale  to  the  foam 

And  haul  the  bonnet  flat. 
They  have  the  freshest  of  the  breeze — 
They  have  the  widest  of  the  seas — 

"  We'll  beat  'em  for  all  that." 

See  !  the  wild  wind  bears  down  the  peak, 
And  shews  its  shear  the  gaboard  streak, 

Loose  is  the  leeward  shroud, 
The  helm  a- weather,  bears  her  round 
That  hard-sought,  hard  gain'd  racing  ground 

So  elegantly  proud. 


1 


71 

And  now,  good  luck  my  honest  hearts, 
Well  do  you  bear  your  dangerous  parts 

x\nd  well  I  wish  you  all. 
I  little  know  your  terms  of  skill, 
But  you  shall  have  my  right  good  will, 

Whatever  chance  befall. 

Good  wives  on  shore,  good  winds  at  sea, 
Fishing  enough  where'er  you  be, 
And  very  many  bites. 
Plenty  of  fish  and  children  too. 
Days  well  employed  and  not  a  few. 
Of  quiet  happy  nights. 

New-London,  Sept.  26,  1827. 


*  Dos  pou  sto,  kai  ton  kosmon  Mneso* 

I  sing  the  Foot.     Let  every  Muse's  wing 
Arrange  its  quills  and  fan  the  classic  lay — 
For  Phoebus  had  a  foot — and  Venus  blest, 
Had  more  than  that,  a  foot  and  ancle  too. 
Neptune,  as  Homer  sung,  could  cause  the  shades, 
And  woods,  and  mountains  tremble  with  his  step. 
Immortal  was  his  foot-fall.    Juno  bright, 
Stamp' d,  when  she  scolded  forth  in  Jove's  own  court. 


72 

'Twas  Hebe's  foot  that  bore  the  nectar  round, 
And  Jupiter's  great  toe  that  Mulhber 
Leap'd  from  to  Lemnos. — But  enough  of  all 
This  heathen  lore — this  pantheon  exercise. 

"What  when  the  drum  beats,  and  the  panting  ranks 
Are  joining,  closing,  moving  on  the  foe — 
When  the  deep  whisper  speeds  along  the  line. 
And  all  must  '  do  or  die' — what  onward  moves 
The  heart-pulse  and  the  nerve,  the  ready  hand. 
The  eye  determin'd,  and  the  kindling  soul ! 
What  urges  up  the  bayonet — what  mounts 
The  desperate  height,  the  ladder  and  the  breach, 
And  tramples  on  the  rended  blood-stain'd  flag  ? 

What  firmest  paces  on  the  rampart  walk. 
Or  softest  trips  it  to  a  lady's  bower. 
Or  lightest  sports  it  in  the  fairy  dance. 
Or  what,  on  provocation,  first  applies 
Its  energies  to  kick  a  scamp  down  stairs  ? 

O  swift  Achilles  of  the  tender  heel — 
O  well  shod  Grecians  of  the  classic  boots — 
O  Infantry  of  poets,  to  whose  feet 
Nor  boot,  nor  shoe,  nor  stocking  e'er  belong'd, 
O  Cinderilla  of  the  vitreous  sock — 
O  Giant  killing  Jack  with  seven  leagued  strides, 
Assist  me  to  immortalize  the  foot. 


FORT  GRISWOLD,  Sept.  6,  1781. 

What  seek  ye  here — ye  desperate  band  ? 
Why  on  this  rough  and  rocky  land, 

With  sly  and  muffled  oar  ? 
Why  in  this  red  and  bright  array 
Stealing  along  the  fisher's  bay, 

Pull  ye  your  boats  to  shore  ? 

Day  broke  upon  that  gentlest  Sound 
Sequestered,  that  the  sea  has  found 

In  its  adventurous  roam, 
A  halcyon  surface — pure  and  deep, 
And  placid  as  an  Infant's  sleep 

Cradled  and  rock'd  at  home. 

Wliat  wakes  the  sleeper  ?  Harm  is  near — 
That  strange  rough  whisper  in  his  ear. 

It  is  a  murderer's  breath ; 
A  thousand  bayonets  are  bright 
Beneath  the  blessed  morning's  light, 

Moving  to  blood  and  death. 
7 


74 

Land  ye  and  march — bat  bid  farewell 
To  this  lone  Sound,  its  coming  swell 

May  moan  when  none  can  save ; 
Many  shall  go  and  few  return, 
That  rock  shall  be  your  only  urn, 

That  sand  your  only  grave. 

Across  the  river's  placid  tide, 
With  steady  stroke  is  seen  to  glide 

A  little  vent'rous  boat : 
'Twas  like  the  cloud  Elijah  saw, 
Small  as  his  hand,  yet  soon  to  draw 

Its  quiver'd  lightnings  out. 

'Twas  like  that  cloud,  for  in  it  went 
A  heart  to  spend  and  to  be  spent 

Till  the  last  drop  was  shed  ; 
'Twas  like  that  cloud,  it  had  a  hand 
That  o'er  its  lov'd,  its  native  land 

A  shadow  broad  has  spread. 

Ledyard  !  thy  morning  thought  was  brave, 
To  fight,  to  conquer,  and  to  save, 

Or  fearlessly  to  die  ; 
Well  did'st  thou  hold  that  feeling  true— 
Did'st  well  that  purpose  bold  pursue, 

'Till  death  closed  down  thine  eye. 


75 

I  dare  not  tell  in  these  poor  rhymes 
That  bloody  tale  of  butchering  times — 

'Tis  too  well  known  to  all ; 
I  write  not  of  the  foeman's  path, 
I  write  not  of  the  battle's  wrath, 

But  of  the  Hero's  fall. 

He  sleeps  where  many  brave  men  sleep. 
Near  Groton  heights  ;  and  nibbling  sheep 

Their  grassy  gr;  ■^  cs  have  found  ; 
But  some,  they  arc  a  few,  are  laid 
Beneath  a  little  swarded  glade 

On  Fisher's  Island  sound. 

The  Sound  is  peaceful  now,  as  when 
It  saw  that  arm'd  array  of  men ; 

And  one  old  fisher  there 
Gave  me  this  tale — 'twas  he  who  told 
The  rough,  the  headlong  and  the  bold 

How  their  rash  fight  should  fare. 

He  too  is  dead,  and  most  are  dead 
Who  stood  or  fell,  who  fought  or  fled 

On  that  September  day. 
Old  man  !  thy  bones  are  gently  laid 
Close  by  yon  shatter'd  oak  trees  shade, 

Beside  the  fisher's  bay. 


I  KNOW  A  BROOK. 

I  know  a  brook  that  winds  its  way  along 

A  dull  and  stony  margin — dwarfish  trees 

And  barren  vegetation  mark  its  course. 

The  stern — bold  grandeur  of  the  granite  rock 

Frowns  not  upon  it — and  the  smooth,  green  lawn 

Slopes  not  to  meet  it.     There  is  nothing  there 

To  notice  but  one  pure  and  limpid  spring 

That  oozes  from  the  rock  and  from  the  moss. 

There  all  that  flourishes,  of  bright  and  green 

Is  cluster'd  there,  the  freshest  of  the  grass 

Laves  in  the  welling  rill.     No  man  would  think 

In  such  a  cold  and  barren  spot,  to  find 

Any  thing  sweet,  or  pure,  oj'  beautiful ; 

But  yet  I  say,  it  is  the  loveliest  gush. 

— 'Tis  so  sequestered,  and  so  arbour'd  o'er 

With  nature's  wildness  in  its  summer  glow — 

The  loveliest  gush  that  ever  spouted  out 

Upon  my  wanderijig  path.     Through  mud  and  mire. 

O'er  many  a  bramble,  many  a  jagged  shoot 

I  stumbled,  ere  I  found  it.     There  I  placed 

A  frail  memorial — that,  when  again 

I  should  revisit  it,  the  thought  might  come 


77 

Of  the  dull  tide  of  life,  and  that  pure  spring 
Wliich  he  who  drinks  of  never  shall  thirst  more. 


SATURDAY  NIGHT  AT  SEA.* 

-    A  mother  stood  by  the  pebbled  shore. 
In  her  hand  she  held  a  bowl — 
"  Now  I'll  drink  a  draught  of  the  salted  seas 

That  broadly  to  me  roll ! — 
On  them  I  have  an  only  son, 

Can  he  forget  me  quite  ? 
O  !  if  his  week  away  has  run. 
He'll  think  of  me  this  night ; 
And  may  he  never  on  the  track 

Of  ocean  in  its  foam, 
Fail  to  look  gladly — kindly  back 
To  those  he  left  at  home. 
I  pledge  him  in  the  ocean  brine. 
Let  him  pledge  me  in  ruddy  wine." 

•  It  is  well  known  that  naval  officers  as  well  as  their  seamen, 
appropriate  Saturday  night  at  sea,  to  the  subject  of  their  "  do- 
mestic relations"  over  a  glass  of  wine  or  of  grog  as  the  case  may- 
be. It  may  not  be  so  notorious  that  their  female  friends  drink 
salt  water  in  celebration  of  this  nautical  vigil. 

7* 


78 

A  sister  stood  where  the  breakers  fall 

In  thunders,  on  the  beach, 
And  out  were  stretch'd  her  eager  arms, 

For  one  she  could  not  reach. 
"  I'll  dip  my  hand,  my  foot,  my  lip, 

Into  the  foaming  white, 
For  sure  as  this  sand  the  sea  doth  sip 
He'll  think  of  me  this  night. 
And  may  he  never  on  the  deck 

Or  on  the  giddy  mast, 
In  gale  or  battle,  storm  or  wreck, 
Forget  the  happy  past. 
I  pledge  him  in  the  ocean  brine, 
Let  him  pledge  me  in  ruddy  wine.**. 

A  wife  went  down  to  the  water's  brink, 

And  thither  a  goblet  brought : 
"  Here  will  I  drink  and  here  I'll  think 

As  once  we  two  have  thought. 
We've  romp'd  by  rock,  and  wood,  and  shore, 

When  moon  and  stars  were  bright, 
And  he,  where'er  the  tempests  roar, 
Will  think  on  me  this  night. 
And  may  he  ever,  ever  meet 

With  a  friend  as  true  and  kind. 
But  not  to  night  shall  he  forget 
The  wife  he  left  behind. 


I 


I 


79 

I  sip  for  him  the  ocean  brine, 
He'll  quaff  for  me  the  ruddy  wine." 

A  maid  csmie  down  with  a  hasty  foot — 

"  My  lover  is  far  at  sea, 
But  I'll  fill  my  cup,  and  I'll  drink  it  out 

To  him  who  deserted  me. 
Nor  mother,  nor  sister,  nor  wife  am  I, 

His  careless  heart  is  light — 
And  he  will  neither  weep,  nor  sigh, 
Nor  think  of  me  this  night — 

He  ivill,  HE  WILL,  a  Sailor's  heart 

Is  true  as  it  is  brave, 
From  home  and  love  'twill  no  more  part 
Than  the  keel  will  quit  the  wave. 
I  pledge  thee  Love  in  ocean's  brine, 
Pledge  gaily  back  in  ruddy  wine." 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  AN  OLD  TOWNSMAN. 

Attempted  for  the  music  of  Rosseau's  Dream. 

Young  he  left  thee — poor  he  left  thee, 

Sad  he  left  thee.  Emerald  Isle — 
When  oppression's  cloud  bereft  thee 

Of  thy  last  and  saddest  smile. 


80 

Here  he  came,  but  Ireland  ever 

Warm'd  his  heart  and  fill'd  his  thought- 
Wandering  son  of  Erin  never 

Sought  his  hearth  and  found  it  not. 

Fast  by  LifFey's  lovely  borders, 
Broad  of  wave  and  darkly  deep, 

Fast  by  Leixlip's  leaping  waters, 
Parents,  friends  and  kindred  sleep. 

Here  he  dwelt,  and  all  around  him 
Blest  his  warm  and  honest  heart — 

Here  he  died  as  first  we  found  him. 
Free  from  guile  and  void  of  art. 

Touch'd  but  now  with  death's  cold  finger, 
Here  he  walks  with  us  no  more — 

But  if  spirits  ever  linger. 

His  will  haunt  the  Liffey  shore. 

New-London,  Aug.  15. 


THE  FALL  OF  NIAGARA. 


Labitur  et  labetur. 


The  thoughts  are  strange  that  crowd  into  my  brain, 
i  While  I  look  upward  to  thee.     It  would  seem 
As  if  God  pour'd  thee  from  his  "  hollow  hand,** 
And  hung  his  bow  upon  thy  awful  front ; 
And  spoke  in  that  loud  voice,  w  hich  seem'd  to  him 
Who  dwelt  in  Patmos  for  his  Saviour's  sake, 
"  The  sound  of  many  waters  ;"  and  had  bade 
Thy  flood  to  chronicle  the  ages  back, 
And  notch  His  cent'ries  in  the  eternal  rocks. 

Deep  calleth  unto  deep.     And  what  are  we, 
That  hear  the  question  of  that  voice  sublime  ? 
Oh !  what  are  all  the  notes  that  ever  rung 
i  From  war's  vain  trumpet,  by  thy  thundering  side  ! 
Yea,  what  is  all  the  riot  man  can  make 
In  his  short  life,  to  thy  unceasing  roar  ! 


82 


And  yet  bold  babbler,  what  art  thou  to  Him, 
Who  drown'd  a  world,  and  heap'd  the  waters  far 
Above  its  loftiest  mountains  ? — a  light  wave, 
That  breaks,  and  whispers  of  its  Maker's  might. 


My  head  is  grey,  hut  not  with  years. 

An  April  Snow  ! — 'tis  as  the  head  of  youth 
Just  freshning  in  the  spring-time  of  its  hopes. 
And  glancing  to  the  sinibeam  the  bright  eye, 
And  pouting,  to  the  first  rose  its  rich  lip. 
Or  turning  to  the  morning's  blush  its  cheek, 
And  to  the  morning's  music  its  young  ear — 
Dimpling  its  chin,  as  April's  rain  drop  falls 
On  the  brook's  eddy, — 'tis  as  if  such  head 
Of  smile,  and  bloom,  and  dimple,  were  adorn'd 
With  the  white  locks  of  age,  that  venerably 
Spread  monitorial  sadness — premature  ; 
Weaving  the  bleach'd  and  silvery  threads  of  time, 
On  the  bright  texture  of  a  glad  boy's  eye-lash. 

So  move  we  on.     I've  seen  the  eye  of  age 
Bright  to  the  last  as  that  of  Moses  was, — 
I've  mark'd  the  foot-falls  of  a  man,  whose  years 
Were  more  than  eighty — firm  and  active  too. 


83 

Who  has  not  seen  the  young  lid  close  in  pain, 
The  young  knee  tremble,  and  the  young  heart  sink, 
And  age,  old  age,  encourage  and  support. 
Even  as  the  tree  stands,  when  the  buds  are  nip't, 
Tenacious  'till  they  would  fall  off — and  then 
Bearing  the  loss  ! — I've  w^ander'd  from  the  theme, 
Why  should  I  not.     "  My  heart  is  in  the  coffin," 
Long  shall  I  "  pause  'till  it  come  back  to  me." 


TO  THE  MOON. 
"  O,  THOU." — Claud  Halero. 

Bless  thy  bright  face  !  though  often  bless'd  before 

By  raving  maniac  and  by  pensive  fool ; 

One  would  say  something  more — but  who  as  yet, 

When  looking  at  thee  in  the  deep  blue  sky. 

Could  tell  the  poorest  thought  that  struck  his  heart  ? 

Yet  all  have  tried,  and  all  have  tried  in  vain. 

At  thee,  poor  planet,  is  the  first  attempt 

That  the  young  rhymster  ventures.     And  the  sigh 

The  boyish  lover  heaves,  is  at  the  Moon. 

Bards,  who — ere  Milton  sung  or  Shakspeare  play'd 

The  dirge  of  sorrow,  or  the  song  of  love. 

Bards,  who  had  higher  soar'd  than  Fesole, 


84 

Knew  better  of  the  Moon.     'Twas  there  they  found 

Vain  thoughts,  lost  hopes,  and  fancy's  happy  dreams, 

And  all  sweet  sounds,  such  as  have  fled  afar 

From  waldng  discords,  and  from  day  light  jars. 

There  Ariosto  puts  the  widow's  weeds 

When  she,  new  wedded,  smiiles  abroad  again, 

And  there  the  sad  maid's  innocence — 'tis  there 

That  broken  vows  and  empty  promises, 

All  good  intentions,  with  no  answering  deed 

To  anchor  them  on  the  substantial  earth, 

Are  shrewdly  pack'd — And  could  he  think  that  thou, 

So  bright,  so  pure  of  aspect,  so  serene, 

Art  the  mere  storehouse  of  our  faults  and  crimes  ? 

I'd  rather  think  as  puling  rhymsters  think, 

Or  love-sick  maidens  fancy — Yea,  prefer 

The  dairy  notion,  that  thou  art  but  cheese. 

Green  cheese — than  thus  misdoubt  thy  honest  face. 


ON    THE    DEATH    OF 

COMMODORE  OLIVER  H.  PERRY. 


By  strangers  honour'd,  and  by  strangers  mourn'd. 


How  sad  the  note  of  that  funereal  drum, 
That's  muffled  by  indifference  to  the  dead  ! 

And  how  reluctantly  the  echoes  come, 

On  air  that  sighs  not  o'er  that  stranger's  bed, 

Who  sleeps  with  death  alone.     O'er  his  young  head 

His  native  breezes  never  more  shall  sigh  ; 

On  his  lone  grave  the  careless  step  shall  tread. 

And  pestilential  vapours  soon  shall  diy 

Each  shrub  that  buds  around — each  flow'r  that  blushes 
nigh. 

Let  Genius,  poising  on  her  full-fledg'd  wing, 
Fill  the  charm'd  air  with  thy  deserved  praise  : 

Of  war,  and  blood,  and  carnage  let  her  sing, 
Of  victory  and  glory  ! — let  her  gaze 
On  the  dark  smoke  that  shrouds  the  cannon's  blaze, 
8 


86 


On  the  red  foarrTthat  crests  the  bloody  billow  ; 

Then  mourn  the  sad  close  of  thy  shorten'd  days — 
Place  on  thy  country's  brow  the  weeping  willow, 
And  plant  the  laurels  thick  around  thy  last  cold  pillow. 

No  sparks  of  Grecian  fire  to  me  belong  : 

Alike  uncouth  the  poet  and  the  lay ; 
Unskill'd  to  turn  the  mighty  tide  of  song, 

He  floats  along  the  current  as  he  may, 

The  humble  tribute  of  a  tear  to  pay. 
Another  hand  may  choose  another  theme, 

May  sing  of  Nelson's  last  and  brightest  day, 
Of  Wolfe's  unequall'd  and  unrivall'd  fame, 
The  wave  of  Trafalgar — the  field  of  Abraham : 

But  if  the  wild  winds  of  thy  western  lake 

Might  teach  a  harp  that  fain  would  mourn  the  brave. 
And  sweep  those  strings  the  minstrel  may  not  wake. 

Or  give  an  echo  from  some  secret  cave 

That  opens  on  romantic  Erie's  wave. 
The  feeble  cord  would  not  be  swept  in  vain  ; 

And  tho'  the  sound  might  never  reach  thy  grave, 
Yet  there  are  spirits  here,  that  to  the  strain 
Would  send  a  still  small  voice  responsive  back  again. 

And  though  the  yellow  plauge  infest  the  air ; 

Though  noxious  vapours  blight  the  turf,  where  rest 


I 


87 

The  manly  form,  and  the  bold  heart  of  war  ; 

Yet  should  that  deadly  isle  afar  be  blest ! 

For  the  fresh  breezes  of  thy  native  west 
Should  seek  and  sigh  around  thy  early  tomb, 

Moist  with  the  tears  of  those  who  lov'd  thee  best, 
Scented  with  sighs  of  love — there  gi-ief  should  come, 
And  mem'ry  guard  thy  grave,  and  mourn  thy  hapless 
doom. 

It  may  not  be.     Too  feeble  is  the  hand. 

Too  weak  and  frail  the  harp,  the  lay  too  brfef. 
To  speak  the  sorrows  of  a  mourning  land. 

Weeping  in  silence  for  her  youthful  chief. 
Yet  may  an  artle?«  tear  proclaim  more  grief 
Than  mock  affection's  arts  can  ever  show ; 

A  heartfelt  sigh  can  give  a  sad  relief. 
Which  all  the  sobs  of  counterfeited  wo, 
Trick'd  off  in  foreign  garb,  can  never  hope  to  know. 


EPITHALAMIUM. 

I  saw  two  clouds  at  morning, 

Ting'd  with  the  rising  sun  ; 
And  in  the  dawn  they  floated  on, 

And  mingled  into  one  : 
I  thought  that  morning  cloud  was  blest, 
It  mov'd  so  sweetly  to  the  west. 

I  oaV:  two  summer  currents, 

Flow  smoothly  to  their  meeting. 
And  join  their  course,  with  silent  force, 

In  peace  each  other  greeting : 
Calm  was  their  course  through  banks  of  green, 
While  dimpling  eddies  play'd  between. 

Such  be  your  gentle  motion. 

Till  hfe's  last  pulse  shall  beat ; 
Like  summer's  beam,  and  summer's  stream, 

Float  on,  in  joy,  to  meet 
A  calmer  sea,  where  storms  shall  cease — 
A  purer  sky,  where  all  is  peace. 


THE  SHAD  SPIRIT. 

There  is  a  superstition  in  many  places,.which  bears,  that  Shad 
are  conducted  from  the  gulf  of  Mexico  into  Connecticut  river  by 
a  kind  of  Yankee  bogle,  in  the  shape  of  a  bird,  properly  called  the 
Shad  Spirit.  It  makes  its  appearance,  annually,  about  a  week 
before  the  Shad,  calls  the  fish,  and  gives  warning  to  the  fisher- 
men to  mend  their  nets.  It  is  supposed,  that  without  his  assist-' 
ance,  the  nets  would  be  swept  to  no  purpose,  and  the  fisherman 
would  labour  m  vain. 

Now  drop  the  bolt,  and  securely  nail 

The  horse-shoe  over  the  door  ; 
'Tis  a  wise  precaution,  and  if  it  should  fail, 

It  never  fail'd  before. 

Know  ye  the  shepherd  that  gathers  his  flock, 

Where  the  gales  of  the  Equinox  blow, 
From  each  unknown  reef,  and  sunken  rock. 

In  the  gulf  of  Mexico  ; 

While  the  Monsoons  growl,  and  the  trade-winds  bark, 

And  the  watch-dogs  of  the  surge 

Pursue  through  the  wild  waves  the  ravenous  shark, 

That  prowls  around  their  charge  ? 
8* 


90 

To  fair  Connecticut's  northernmost  source, 

O'er  sand-bars,  rapids,  and  falls, 
The  Shad  Spirit  holds  his  onward  course, 

With  the  flocks  which  his  whistle  calls. 

O  how  shall  he  know  where  he  went  before  ? 

Will  he  wander  around  for  ever  ? 
The  last  year's  shad-heads  shall  shine  on  the  shore, 

To  light  him  up  the  river. 

And  well  can  he  tell  the  very  time 

To  undertake  his  task — 
When  the  pork  barrel's  low,  he  sits  on  the  chine. 

And  drums  on  the  empty  cider  cask. 

The  wind  is  light,  and  the  wave  is  white, 
With  the  fleece  of  the  flock  that's  near ; 

Like  the  breath  of  the  breeze,  he  comes  over  the  seas. 
And  faithfully  leads  them  here. 

And  now  he's  passed  the  bolted  door, 

Where  the  rusted  horse-shoe  clings  ; 
So  carry  the  nets  to  the  nearest  shore, 

And  take  what  the  Shad  Spirit  brings. 


r 


ON    THE 

BIRTHDAY  OF  WASHINGTON. 

Written  for  February  22d,  1822. 


"  Hie  cinis — ubique  fama." 


Behold  the  moss'd  corner-stone  dropp'd  from  the  wall, 
And  gaze  on  its  date,  but  remember  its  fall, 

And  hope  that  some  hand  may  replace  it ; 
Think  not  of  its  pride  when  with  pomp  it  was  laid, 
But  weep  for  the  ruin  its  absence  has  made, 

And  the  lapse  of  the  years  that  efface  it. 

Mourn  Washington's  death,  when  ye  think  of  his  birth, 
And  far  from  your  thoughts  be  the  lightness  of  mirth, 

And  far  from  your  cheek  be  its  smile. 
To-day  he  was  born — 'twas  a  loan — not  a  gift : 
The  dust  of  his  body  is  all  that  is  left. 

To  hallow  his  funeral  pile. 


92 

Flow  gently,  Potomac  !  thou  washest  away 

The  sands  where  he  trod,  and  the  turf  where  he  lay, 

When  youth  brush'd  his  cheek  with  her  wing ; 
Breathe  softly,  ye  wild  winds,  that  circle  around 
That  dearest,  and  purest,  and  holiest  ground. 

Ever  press'd  by  the  footprints  of  Spring. 

Each  breeze  be  a  sigh,  and  each  dewdrop  a  tear. 
Each  wave  be  a  whispering  monitor  near, 

To  remind  the  sad  shore  of  his  story  ; 
And  darker,  and  softer,  and  sadder  the  gloom 
Of  that  evergreen  mourner  that  bends  o'er  the  tomb. 

Where  Washington  sleeps  in  his  glory. 

Great  God  !  when  the  spirit  of  freedom  shall  fail, 
And  the  sons  of  the  pilgrims,  in  sorrow,  bewail 

Their  religion  and  liberty  gone  ; 
Oh !  send  back  a  form  that  shall  stand  as  lie  stood, 
Unsubdu'd  by  the  tempest,  unmov'd  by  the  flood ; 

And  to  Thee  be  the  glory  alone. 


SPRING. 

TO  MISS 

Other  poets  may  muse  on  thy  beauties,  and  sing 
I  Of  thy  birds,  s«id  thy  flowers,  and  thy  perfumes,  sweet 
'  Spring ! 

They  may  wander  enraptur'd  by  hills  and  by  moun- 
tains. 

Or  pensively  pore  by  thy  fresh  gushing  fountains  ; 

Or  sleep  in  the  moor:.llg!{l  by  fiivouriiu  slruams, 

Inspird  by  the  whispering  sylphs  in  their  dreams, 
i  And  awake  from  their  slumbers  to  hail  the  bright  sun, 
I  When  shining  in  dew  the  fresh  morning  comes  on. 

But  I've  wet  shoes  and  stockings,  a  cold  in  my  throat, 

The  head-ache,  and  tooth-ache,  and  quinsy  to  boot ; 

No  dew  from  the  cups  of  the  flow'rets  I  sip, — 

'Tis  nothing  but  honeset  that  moistens  my  lip 

Not  a  cress  from  the  spring  or  the  brook  can  be  had : 

At  morn,  noon,  and  night,  I  get  nothing  but  shad  ; 

My  whispering  sylph  is  a  broad-shoulder'd  lass, 

And  my  bright  sun — a  warming  pan  made  out  of  brass  1 


94 

Then  be  tliou  my  genius ;  for  what  can  I  do, 
When  I  cannot  see  nature,  but  copy  from  you  ? 
If  Spring  be  the  season  of  beauty  and  youth, 
Of  health  and  of  loveliness,  kindness  and  truth ; 
Of  all  that's  inspiring,  and  all  that  is  bright, 
And  all  that  is  what  we  ca\\  just. about  right — 
Why  need  I  expose  my  sick  muse  to  the  weather, 
When  by  going  to  you  she  would  feid  all  together  ? 


ON  A  lXtE  loss.* 

"  He  shall  not  float  upon  his  watery  bier 

"  Unwept." 


The  breath  of  air  that  stirs  the  harp's  soft  string. 

Floats  on  to  join  the  whirlwind  and  the  st^rm  ; 
The  drops  of  dew  exhaled  from  flowers  of  spring, 

Rise  and  assume  the  tempest's  threatening  form  ; 
The  first  mild  beam  of  morning's  glorious  sun, 

Ere  night,  is  sporting  in  the  lightning's  flash ; 
And  the  smooth  stream,  that  flows  in  quiet  on, 

Moves  but  to  aid  the  overwhelming  dash 

*The  loss  of  Professor  Fisher,  in  the  Albion. 


95 

That  wave  Eind  wind  can  muster,  when  the  might 
Of  earth,  and  air,  and  sea,  and  sky  unite. 

So  science  whisper'd  in  thy  charmed  ear, 

And  radiant  learning  beckon'd  thee  away. 
The  breeze  was  music  to  thee,  and  the  clear, 

Beam  of  thy  morning  promis'd  a  bright  day. 
And  they  have  wreck'd  thee  ! — But  there  is  a  shore 

Where  storms  are  hush'd,  where  tempests  never  rage  ; 
Where  angry  skies  and  blackening  seas,  no  more 

With  gusty  strength  their  roaring  warfare  wage. 
By  thee  its  peaceful  margent  shall  be  trod — 

Thy  home  is  Heaven,  and  thy  friend  is  God. 


On  Thursday,  the  21st  of  February,  1823,  in  the  middle  of  the 
day,  as  the  mail  stage  from  Hartford  to  New-Haven,  with  three 
passengers,  was  crossing  the  bridge  at  the  foot  of  the  hill  near 
Ihirham,  the  bridge  was  carried  away  by  the  ice,  and  the  stage 
was  precipitated  down  a  chasm  of  twenty  feet.  Two  of  the  pas- 
sengers were  drowned:  one  of  them  had  been  long  from  home, 
and  was  on  his  way  to  see  his  friends.  This  occurrence  is  men- 
tioned as  explanatory  of  the  following  lines. 

**  How  slow  we  drive  !  but  yet  the  hour  will  come, 
When  friends  shall  greet  me  with  affection's  kiss ; 


96 

When,  seated  at  my  boyhood's  happy  home, 
I  shall  enjoy  a  mild,  contented  bliss, 
Not  often  met  with  in  a  world  like  this  ! 

Then  I  shall  see  that  brother,  youngest  born, 
I  used  to  play  with  in  my  sportiveness ; 

And,  from  a  mother's  holiest  look,  shall  learn 

A  parent's  thanks  to  God,  for  a  lov'd  son's  return. 

"  And  there  is  one,  who,  with  a  downcast  eye, 
Will  be  the  last  to  welcome  me  ;  but  yet 

My  memory  tells  me  of  a  parting  sigh. 
And  of  a  lid  with  tears  of  sorrow  wet. 
And  how  she  bade  me  never  to  forget 

A  friend — and  blush'd.     Oh  !  I  shall  see  again 
The  same  kind  look  I  saw,  when  last  we. met, 

And  parted.     Tell  me  then  that  life  is  vain — 

That  joy,  if  met  with  once,  is  seldom  met  again." 


*       *       *     See  ye  not  the  falling,  fallen  mass  ? 

Hark !  hear  ye  not  the  drowning  swimmer's  cry  ? 
Look  on  the  ruius  of  the  desperate  pass  ! 

Gaze  at  the  hurried  ice  that  rushes  by, 

Bearing  a  freight  of  wo  and  agony. 
To  that  last  haven  where  we  all  must  go. — 

Resistless  as  the  stormy  clouds  that  fly 


97 


Above  our  reach,  is  that  dark  stream  below ! — 
May  peace  be  in  its  ebb — there's  ruin  in  its  flow. 


The  Rev.  Levi  Parsons,  who  was  associated  with  the  Rgv. 
liny  risk, 
18th,  182-2. 


Pliny  risk,  on  the  Palestine  mission,  died  at  Alexandria. 


Rev. 

IB). 


Green  as  Machpelah's  honour'd  field 
Where  Jacob  and  where  Leah  lie, 

Where  Sharon's  shrubs  their  roses  yield, 
And  Carmel's  branches  wave  oh  high ; 

So  honour'd,  so  adorn'd,  so  green. 

Young  martyr !  shall  thy  grave  be  seen. 

Oh  !  how  unlike  the  bloody  bed, 

Wliere  pride  and  passion  seek  to  lie  ; 

Where  faith  is  not,  where  hope  can  shed 
No  tear  of  holy  sympathy. 

There  withering  thoughts  shall  drop  around, 

In  dampness  on  the  lonely  mound. 


On  Jordan's  weeping  willow  trees. 

Another  holy  harp  is  hung : 
It  murmurs  in  as  soft  a  breeze, 
9 


98 

As  e'er  from  Gilead's  balm  was  flung, 
When  Judah's  tears,  in  Babel's  stream 
Dropp'd,  and  when  "  Zion  was  their  theme." 

So  may  the  harp  of  Gabriel  sound 
In  the  high  heaven,  to  welcome  thee, 

When,  rising  from  the  holy  ground 
Of  Nazareth  and  Galilee, 

The  Saints  of  God  shall  take  their  flight, 

In  rapture,  to  the  realms  of  light. 


The  project  for  colonizing  in  Africa  the  "free  people  of  colour," 

was  the  subject  of  these  lines. 


"  Magna  componere  parvis." 


All  sights  are  fair  to  the  recover'd  blind — 
All  sounds  are  music  to  the  deaf  restor'd — 

The  lame,  made  whole,  leaps  like  the  sporting  hind : 
And  the  sad  bow'd  down  sinner,  with  his  load 

Of  shame  and  sorrow,  when  he  cuts  the  cord. 
And  drops  the  pack  it  bound,  is  free  again 

In  the  light  yoke  and  burden  of  his  Lord. 


99 

Thus,  with  the  birthright  of  his  fellow  man, 
Sees,  hears  and  feels  at  once  the  righted  African. 

'Tis  somewhat  like  the  burst  from  death  to  life ; 

From  the  grave's  cerements  to  the  robes  of  Heaven; 
.  From  sin's  dominion,  and  from  passion's  strife, 

To  the  pure  freedom  of  a  soul  forgiven ! 

When  all  the  bonds  of  death  and  hell  are  riven. 
And  mortals  put  on  immortality ; 

When  fear,  and  care,  and  grief  away  are  driven. 
And  Mercy's  hand  has  turned  the  golden  key, 
And  Mercy's  voice  has  said,  "Rejoice — th^^  soul  is  free!" 


MARQUIS  LA  FAYETTE. 

The  only  surviving  General  of  the  Revolution. 

We'll  search  the  earth,  and  search  the  sea, 

To  cull  a  gallant  wreath  for  thee  ; 

And  every  field  for  freedom  fought. 

And  every  mountain  height,  where  aught 

Of  liberty  can  yet  be  found. 

Sail  be  our  blooming  harvest  ground. 


100 

Laurels  in  garlands  hang  upon 
Thermopylae  and  Marathon — 
On  Bannockbum  the  thistle  grows — 
On  Runny  Mead  the  wild  rose  blows ; 
And  on  the  banks  of  Boyne,  its  leaves 
Green  Erin's  shamrock  wildly  weaves. 
In  France,  in  sunny  France,  we'll  get 
The  fleur-de-lys  and  mignonette, 
From  every  consecrated  spot 
Where  lies  a  martyr'd  Hugonot ; 
And  cull,  even  here  from  many  a  field, 

And  many  a  rocky  height, 
Bays  that  our  vales  and  mountains  yield. 

Where  men  have  met,  to  fight 
For  law,  and  liberty  and  life. 
And  died  in  freedom's  holy  strife. 

Below  Atlantic  seas — below 

The  waves  of  Erie  and  Champlain, 
The  sea  grass  and  the  corals  grow 

In  rostral  trophies  round  the  slain ; 
And  we  can  add,  to  form  thy  crown, 
Some  branches  worthy  thy  renown  ! 
Long  may  the  chaplet  flourish  bright, 
And  borrow  from  the  Heavens  its  light, 
As  with  a  cloud,  that  circles  round 


101 

A  star  when  other  stars  have  set, 
With  glory  shall  thy  brow  be  bound ; 
With  glory  shall  thy  head  be  crown'd ; 

With  glory,  starlike,  cinctur'd  yet; 
For  earth,  and  air,  and  sky,  and  sea. 
Shall  yield  a  glorious  wreath  to  thee. 


MANIAC'S  SONG. 

I  can  but  smile  when  others  weep, 

I  can  but  weep  when  others  smile  ; 
Oh  !  let  me  in  this  bosom  keep 

The  secret  of  my  heart  awhile. 

My  form  was  fair,  my  step  was  light, 

As  ever  tripped  the  dance  along; 
My  cheek  was  smooth,  my  eye  was  bright — 

But  my  thought  was  wild,  and  my  heart  was 
young. 

And  he  I  lov'd  would  laugh  with  glee. 
And  every  heart  but  mine  was  glad; 

He  had  a  smile  for  all  but  me ; 
Oh !  he  was  gay,  and  I  was  sad ! 
9* 


102 

Now  I  have  lost  my  bloming  health, 
And  joy  and  hope  no  more  abide ; 

And  wildering  fancies  come  by  stealth, 
Like  moonlight  on  a  shifting  tide. 

They  say  he  wept,  when  he  was  told 

That  I  was  sad  and  sorrowful — 
That  on  my  wrist  the  chain  was  cold — 
;'   That  at  my  heart  the  blood  was  dull. 

They  fear  I'm  craz'd — they  need  not  fear, 
For  smiles  are  false  and  tears  are  true ; 

I  better  love  to  see  a  tear, 
Than  all  the  smiles  I  ever  knew. 


TO  THE  MEMORY  OF 

CHARLES  BROCKDEN  BROWN. 

We  seek  not  mossy  bank,  or  whispering  stream, 
Or  pensive  shade,  in  twiHght  softness  deck'd. 

Or  dewy  canopy  of  flowers,  or  beam 

Of  autumn's  sun,  by  various  foliage  check'd. 

Our  sweetest  river,  and  our  loveUest  glen,  ' 
Our  softest  waterfalls,  just  heard  afar, 

Our  sunniest  slope,  or  greenest  hillock,  when 
It  takes  its  last  look  at  the  evening  star. 

May  suit  some  softer  soul.  But  thou  wert  fit 
To  tread  our  mighty  mountains,  and  to  mark, 

In  untrack'd  woods,  the  eagle's  pinions  flit 
O'er  roaring  cataracts  and  chasms  dark : 

To  talk  and  walk  with  Nature,  in  her  wild 
Attire,  her  boldest  form,  her  sternest  mood  ; 

To  be  her  own  enthusiastic  child, 
And  seek  her  in  her  awful  solitude. 


104 

There,  when  through  stormy  clouds,  the  struggling 
moon 

On  some  wolf-haunted  rock  shone  cold  and  clear, 
Thou  could'st  commune,  inspir'd  by  her  alone, 

With  all  her  works  of  wonder  and  of  fear. 

Now  thou  art  gone,  and  who  thy  walks  among, 
Shall  rove,  and  medidate  and  muse  on  thee  ? 

No  whining  rhymster  with  his  schoolboy  song, 
May  wake  thee  with  his  muling  minstrelsy. 

Some  western  muse,  if  western  muse  there  be, 

When  the  rough  wind  in  clouds  has  swath'd  her 
form, 

Shall  boldly  wind  her  wintry  form  for  thee. 

And  tune  her  gusty  music  to  the  storm. 

The  cavern's  echoes,  and  the  forest's  voice. 
Shall  chime  in  concord  to  the  waking  tone  ; 

And  winds  and  waters,  with  perpetual  noise. 
For  thee  shall  make  their  melancholy  moan. 


LORD  EXMOUTH'S  VICTORY 

AT  ALGIERS.— 1816. 


Arma  virumque  cano. 


The  sun  look'd  bright  upon  the  morning  tide : 

Light  play'd  the  breeze  along  the  whispering  shore, 
And  the  blue  billow  arch'd  its  head  of  pride, 

As  'gainst  the  rock  its  frothy  front  it  bore  ; 

The  clear  bright  dew  fled  hastily  before 
The  morning's  sun,  and  glitter'd  in  his  rays  ; 

Aloft  the  early  lark  was  seen  to  soar, 
And  cheerful  nature  glorified  the  ways 
Of  God,  and  mutely  sang  her  joyous  notes  of  praise. 

The  freshening  breeze,  the  sporting  wave. 
Their  own  impartial  greeting  gave 

To  Christian  and  to  Turk ; 
But  both  prepared  to  break  the  charm 
Of  peace,  with  war's  confused  alarm —  ^ 

And  ready  each,  for  combat  warm, 

Commenc'd  the  bloody  work. 


106     • 

For  England's  might  was  on  the  seas, 
With  red  cross  flapping  in  the  breeze, 

And  streamer  floating  light ; 
While  the  pale  crescent,  soon  to  set, 
Waved  high  on  tower  and  minaret, 
And  all  the  pride  of  Mahomet 

Stood  ready  for  the  fight. 

Then  swell'd  the  noise  of  battle  high ; 
The  warrior's  shout,  the  coward's  cry, 

Rung  round  the  spacious  bay. 
Fierce  was  the  strife,  and  ne'er  before 
Had  old  Numidia's  rocky  shore 
Been  deafen'd  with  such  hideous  roar, 

As  on  that  bloody  day. 

It  seem'd  as  if  that  earth-born  brood, 
Which,  poets  say,  once  warr'd  on  God, 

Had  risen  from  the  sea ; — 
As  if  again  they  boldly  strove 
To  seize  the  thunderbolts  of  Jove, 
And  o'er  Olympian  powers  to  prove 

Their  own  supremacy. 

What  though  the  sun  has  sunk  to  rest  ? 
>Vhat  though  the  clouds  of  smoke  invest 
The  capes  of  Matisou  ? — 


107 

Still  by  the  flash  each  sees  his  foe, 
And,  dealing  round  him  death  and  wo, 
With  shot  for  shot,  and  blow  for  blow, 
Fights — to  his  country  true. 

Each  twinkling  star  look'd  down  to  see 
The  pomp  of  England's  chivalry, 

The  pride  of  Britain's  crown  ! 
While  ancient  JEtno.  rais'd  his  head. 
Disgorging  from  his  unknown  bed 
A  fire,  that  round  each  hero  shed 

A  halo  of  renown. 

The  dying  sailor  cheer'd  his  crew. 
While  thick  around  the  death-shot  flew  ; 

And  glad  was  he  to  see 
Old  England's  flag  still  streaming  high, — 
Her  cannon  speaking  to  the  sky. 
And  telling  all  the  pow'rs  on  high. 

Of  Exmouth's  victory ! 

The  crescent  wanes — the  Turkish  might 
Is  Vcmquish'd  in  the  bloody  fight, 

The  Pirate's  race  is  run  ; — 
Thy  shouts  are  hush'd,  and  all  is  still 
On  tow'r,  and  battlement,  and  hill, 
No  loud  command — no  answer  shrill — 

Algiers  !  thy  day  is  done  ! 


108 

The  slumb'ring  tempest  swell'd  its  breath, 
And  sweeping  o'er  the  field  of  death, 

And  o'er  the  waves  of  gore, 
Above  the  martial  trumpet's  tone, 
Above  the  wounded  soldier's  moan, 
Above  the  dying  sailor's  groan,  > 

Rais'd  its  terrific  roar. 

Speed  swift,  ye  gales,  and  bear  along 
This  burden  for  the  poet's  song, 

O'er  continent  and  sea  : 
Tell  to  the  world  that  Britain's  hand 
Chastis'd  the  misbelieving  band, 
And  overcame  the  Paynim  land 

In  glorious  victory. 


WRITTEN 

FOR    A 

LADY'S  COMMON  PLACE  BOOK. 

Ah !  who  can  imagine  what  plague  and  what  bothers 
He  feels,  who  sits  down  to  write  verses  for  others ! 
His  pen  must  be  mended,  his  inkstand  be  ready, 
His  paper  laid  square,  and  his  intellects  steady ; 
And  then  for  a  subject — No,  that's  not  the  way, 
For  genuine  poets  don't  care  ichat  they  say, 
But  Jww  they  shall  say  it.     So  now  for  a  measure. 
That's  suited  alike  to  your  taste  and  my  leisure. 
For  instjmce,  if  you  were  a  matron  of  eighty. 
The  verse  should  be  dignified,  solemn,  and  weighty ; 
And  luckless  the  scribbler  who  had  not  the  tact, 
To  make  every  line  a  sheer  matter  of  fact. 
Or  if  jTDU  were  a  stiff,  worn-out  spinster,  too  gouty 
To  make  a  good  sylph,  and  too  sour  for  a  beauty ; 
Too  old  for  a  flirt,  and  too  young  to  confess  it; 
Too  good  to  complain  oPt,  and  too  bad  to  bless  it; 
The  muse  should  turn  out  some  unblameable  sonnet. 
And  mutter  blank  verse  in  her  comments  upon  it; 

10 


110 

Demure  in  her  walk,  should  look  down  to  her  shoe, 
And  pick  the  dry  pathway,  for  fear  of  the  dew. 

But  for  you,  she  shall  trip  it,  wherever  she  goes, 
As  light  and  fantastic  as  L' Allegro's  toes ; 
Wade,  swim,  fly,  or  scamper,  flull-fledg'd  and  web- 
footed, 
Or  on  Pegasus  mounted,  well  spurr'd  and  well  booted, 
With  martingale  fanciful,  crupper  poetic. 
Saddle  cloth  airy  and  whip  energetic. 
Girths  woven  of  rainbows,  and  hard  twisted  flax, 
And  horse  shoes  as  bright  as  the  edge  of  an  axe ; 
How  bhthe  should  she  amble  and  prance  on  the  road  ; 
With  a  pillion  behind  for . 

By  Helicon's  waters  she'll  take  her  sweet  course, 
And  indent  the  green  turf  with  the  hoofs  of  her  horse  ;' 
Up  blooming  Parnassus  bound  higher  and  higher. 
While  the  gate-keeping  Graces  no  toll  shall  require  ; 
And  the  other  eight  Muses  shall  dance  in  cotillion, 
And  sing  round  the  sweep  of  Apollo's  pavillion — 
While  Phoebus  himself,  standing  godlike  on  dry  land. 
Shall  shine  on  the  belle  of  the  state  of  R****  I*****,, 


TO  MY  FRIEND  G . 

THE    LOST    PLEIAD.* 

Oh!  how  calm  and  how  beautiful — look, at  the  night! 
The  planets  are  wheeling  in  pathways  of  light ; 
And  the  lover,  or  poet,  with  heart,  or  with  eye, 
Sends  his  gaze  with  a  tear,  or  his  soul  with  a  sigh. 

But  from  Fesole's  summit  the  Tuscan  look'd  forth, 
To  eastward  and  westward,  to  south  and  to  north ; 
Neither  planet  nor  star  could  his  vision  delight, 
'Till  his  own  bright  Pleiades  should  rise  to  his  sight. 

They  rose,  and  he  number'd  their  glistering  train — 
They  shone  bright  as  he  counted  them  over  again  ; 
But  the  star  of  his  love,  the  bright  gem  of  the  cluster, 
Arose  not  to  lend  the  Pleiades  its  lusture. 

And  thus  when  the  splendour  of  beauty  has  blaz'd  , 
On  light  and  on  loveliness,  how  have  we  gaz'd! 

*  'Tis  said  by  the  ancient  poets,  that  there  used  to  be  one  more 
star  in  the  constellation  of  the  Pleiades. 


11 


112 


And  how  sad  have  we  turn'd  from  the  sight,  when  we 

found 
That  the  fairest  and  sweetest  was  "  not  on  the  ground.'' 


THE  CAPTAIN. 

A  FRAGMENT.* 

Solemn  he  pac'd  upon  that  schooner's  deck, 
And  mutter'd  of  his  hardships : — "  I  have  been 
Where  the  wild  will  of  Mississippi's  tide 
Has  dash'd  me  on  the  sawyer ; — I  have  sail'd 
In  the  thick  night,  along  the  wave-wash'd  edge 
Of  ice,  in  acres,  by  the  pitiless  coast 
Of  Labrador;  and  I  have  scrap'd  my  keel 
O'er  coral  rocks  in  Madagascar  seas — 
And  often  in  my  cold  and  midnight  watch, 
Have  heard  the  warning  voice  of  the  lee  shore 

*  The  Bridgeport  paper  of  March,  1823,said :  "  Arrived,  schoo- 
ner Fame,  from  Charleston,  via  New-London.  While  at  anclior 
in  that  harbour,  during  the  rain  storm  on  Thursdaj"-  evening  last, 
the  Fame  was  run  foul  of  by  the  wreck  of  the  Methodist  Meeting- 
House  from  Norwich,  which  was  carried  away  in  the  late 
freshet. 


113 

Speaking  in  breakers  !  Ay,  and  I  have  seen 

The  whale  and  sword-fish  fight  beneath  my  bows 

And  when  they  made  the  deep  boil  like  a  pot, 

Have  swimg  into  its  vortex ;  and  I  know 

To  cord  my  vessel  with  a  sailor's  skill, 

And  brave  such  dangers  with  a  sailor's  heart ; 

— But  never  yet  upon  the  stormy  wave, 

Or  where  the  river  mixes  with  the  main, 

Or  in  the  chafing  anchorage  of  the  bay. 

In  all  my  rough  experience  of  harm. 

Met  I — a  Methodist  meeting-house ! 


Cat-head,  or  beam,  or  davit  has  it  none, 

Starboard  nor  larboard,  gunwale,  stem  nor  stern  ! 

It  comes  in  such  a  "  questionable  shape," 

I  cannot  even  speak  it !    Up  jib,  Josey, 

And  make  for  Bridgeport!    There  where  Stratford 

Point, 
Long  Beach,  Fairweather  Island,  and  the  buoy, 
Are  safe  from  such  encounters,  we'll  protest ! 
And  Yankee  legends  long  shall  tell  the  tale, 
That  once  a  Charleston  schooner  was  beset, 
Riding  at  anchor,  by  a  Meeting-House. 
10* 


The  following  lines  refer  to  the  good  wishes  which  Elizabeth, 
in  Mr.  Cooper's  novel  of"  The  Pioneers,"  seems  to  have  mani- 
fested, in  the  last  chapter,  for  the  welfare  of  "  Leather  Stocking," 
when  he  signified  at  the  grave  of  the  Indian,  his  determination  to 
quit  the  settlements  of  men  for  the  unexplored  forests  of  the 
west ;  and  when,  whistling  to  his  dogs,  with  his  rifle  on  his  shoul- 
der, and  his  pack  on  his  back,  he  left  the  village  of  Templeton- 

Far  away  from  the  hill  side,  the  lake  and  the  hamlet, 

The  rock  and  the  brook,  and  yon  meadow  so  gay  ; 
From  the  footpath  that  winds  by  the  side  of  the  stream- 
let; 
From  his  hut,  and  the  grave  of  his  friend,  far  away — 
He  is  gone  where  the  footsteps  of  men  never  ventur'd, 
Where  the  glooms  of  the  wide-tangled  forest  are  cen- 

ter'd. 
Where  no  beam  of  the  sun  or  the  sweet  moon  has  en- 
ter'd, 
No  bloodhound  has  rous'd  up  the  deer  with  his  bay. 

He  has  left  the  green  alley  for  paths,  where  the  bison 
Roams  through  the  prairies,  or  leaps  o'er  the  flood  ; 
Where  the  snake  in  the  swamp  sucks  its  deadhest  poison, 


116 

And  the  cat  of  the  mountains  keeps   watch  for  its 
food, 
But  the  leaf  shall  be  greener,  the  sky  shall  be  purer, 
The  eye  shall  be  clearer,  the  rifle  be  surer. 
And  stronger  the  arm  of  the  fearless  endurer, 

That  trusts  nought  but  Heaven  in  his  way  through  the 
wood. 

Light  be  the  heart  of  the  poor  lonely  wanderer; 
■     Firm  be  his  step  through  each  wearisome  mile ; 
Far  from  the  cruel  man,  far  from  the  plunderer; 
Far  from  the  track  of  the  mean  and  the  vile. 
And  when  death,  with  the  last  of  its  terrors  assails  him, 
And  all  but  the  last  throb  of  memory  fails  him. 
He'll  think  of  the  friend,  far  away,  that  bewails  him, 
And  light  up  the  cold  touch  of  death  with  a  smile. 
And  there  shall  the  dew  shed  its  sweetness  and  lusture  ; 

There  for  his  pall  shall  the  oak  leaves  be  spread ; 
The  sweet  briar  shall  bloom,  and  the  wild  grape  shall 
cluster ; 
And  o'er  him  the  leaves  of  the  ivy  be  shed. 
There  shall  they  mix  with  the  fern  and  the  heather ; 
There  shall  the  young  eagle  shed  its  first  feather ; 
The  wolves,  with  his  wild  dogs,  shall  lie  there  together, 
:        And  moan  o'er  the  spot  where  the  hunter  is  laid. 


*  EXTRACTS 

PROM   VERSES   WRITTEN   FOR   THE    NEW- YEAR,    1823. 

When  streams  of  light,  in  golden  showers. 
First  fell  on  long  lost  Eden's  bowers, 
And  music,  from  the  shouting  skies, 
Wander'd  to  Eve's  own  Paradise, 
She  tun'd  her  eloquent  thoughts  to  song. 
And  hymn'd  her  gratitude  among 
The  waving  groves,  by  goodness  planted, 
The  holy  walks  by  blessings  haunted : 
And  when  of  bower  and  grove  bereaved. 
Since  joy  was  gone,  in  song  she  grieved, 
And  taught  her  scattering  sons  the  art, 
In  mirth  or  wo,  to  touch  the  heart. 
Bear  witness  Jubal's  ringing  wire, 
And  untaught  David's  holier  lyre  ; 
Let  Judah's  timbrel  o'er  the  waters, 
Sound  to  the  song  of  Israel's  daughters. 
Let  prophecy  the  strain  prolong, 
Prompting  the  watching  shepherd's  song. 


'^^  ^^P^ 


117 

And  pressing  to  her  eager  lips, 
The  trump  of  the  Apocalj-pse. 
Bear  witness  pagan  Homer's  strain, 
That  to  each  valley,  hill,  and  plain. 
Of  classic  Greece — to  all  the  isles 
That  dimple  in  her  climate's  smiles — 
To  all  the  streams  that  rush  or  flow 
To  the  rough  Archipelago — 
To  wood  and  rock,  to  brook  and  river. 
Gave  names  will  live  in  song  for  ever. 

The  notes  were  rude  that  Druids  sung 
Their  venerable  woods  among ; 
But  later  bards,  enwrapt,  could  pore 
At  noon  upon  their  pastoral  lore, 
And  love  the  oak-crown'd  shade,  that  yielded 
A  blessing,  on  the  spot  it  shielded. 
It  shed  a  solemn  calm  around 
Their  steps,  who  trod  the  jNIuse's  ground ; 
And  wav'd  o'er  Shakspeare's  summer  dreams. 
By  Avon's  fancy-haunted  streams. 

Then  Genius  stamp'd  her  footprints  free. 
Along  the  walks  of  Poetry ; 
And  cast  a  spell  upon  the  spot. 
To  save  it  from  the  common  lot. 


118 

•Twas  like  the  oily  gloss  that's  seen 

Upon  the  shining  evergreen, 

When  desolate  in  wintry  air, 

The  trees  and  shrubs  around  are  bare. 

And  when  a  New- Year's  sun  at  last 

Lights  back  our  thoughts  upon  the  past ; 

When  recollection  brings  each  loss 

Our  sad'ning  memories  across  ; 

When  Piety  and  Science  mourn 
Parsons  and  Fisher  from  them  torn — •* 
Just  as  yon  yellow  plague  has  fled — 
While  mindful  mourners  wail  the  dead, 
The  great,  the  good,  the  fair,  the  brave, 
Seiz'd  in  the  cold  grasp  of  the  grave  ; 
When  Murder's  hand  has  died  the  flood 
With  a  young  gallant  hero's  blood  ; 
When  checks  are  pale,  and  hearts  distrest ; 
Is  this  a  time  for  idle  jest  ? 

The  waves  shall  moan,  the  winds  shall  wail. 
Around  thy  rugged  coast,  Kinsale, 
For  one  who  could  mete  out  the  seas, 
And  turn  to  music  every  breeze — 
Track  the  directing  star  of  night. 
And  point  the  varying  needle  right. 


119 

Fair  Palestine  !  is  there  no  sound 
That  murmurs  holy  peace  around 
His  distant  gi'ave,  whose  cirdent  soul 
Fainted  not  till  it  i-each'd  thy  goal, 
And  bless'd  the  rugged  path  that  led 
His  steps  where  his  Redeemer  bled  ? 
We  may  not  breathe  what  angels  sing — 
We  may  not  wake  a  seraph's  string  ; 
Nor  brush,  with  mortal  steps,  the  dew 
That  heavenly  eyes  have  shed  on  you. 

And  who  shall  tell  to  listening  Glory, 
Bending  in  grief  her  plumed  head, 
While  war-drops  from  her  brow  are  shed, 
And  her  beating  heart  and  pulses  numb, 
Throb  like  the  tuck  of  a  muffled  drum. 

Her  favourite  Allen's  story  ? 
Oh  !  other  harps  shall  sing  of  him, 
And  other  eyes  with  tears  be  dim ; 
And  gallant  hopes  that  banish  feeirs. 
And  hands  and  hearts,  as  well  as  tears. 
Shall  yet,  before  all  eyes  are  dry. 
Do  justice  to  his  memory. 
And  hew  or  light,  with  sword  or  flame, 
A  pile  of  vengeance  to  his  name. 


120 

Oh  !  for  those  circumscribing  seas, 

That  hemm'd  thy  foes,  Themistocles ! 

When  Xerxes  saw  his  vanquish'd  fleet, 

And  routed  army  at  his  feet — 

And  scowl'd  o'er  Salamis,  to  see 

His  foes'  triumphant  victory  ! 

Oh  !  for  that  more  than  mortal  stand, 

Where,  marshalUng  his  gallant  band, 

Leonidas,  at  freedom's  post, 

Gave  battle  to  a  tyrant's  host : 

Then  Greece  might  struggle,  not  in  vain, 

And  breathe  in  liberty  again. 


THE  SEA  GULL.* 


"Ibis  et  redibis  nunquam  peribis  in  bello." — Oracle. 


I  seek  not  the  grove  where  the  wood-robins  whistle. 
Where  the  light  sparrows  sport,  and  the  linnets  pair ; 

I  seek  not  the  bower  where  the  ring-doves  nestle, 
For  none  but  the  maid  and  her  lover  are  there. 

*  Com.  Porter's  vessel. 


121 

On  the  clefts  of  the  wave-wash'd  rock  I  sit, 
When  the  ocean  is  roaring  and  raving  nigh  ; 

On  the  howhng  tempest  I  scream  and  flit, 

With  the  storm  in  my  wing,  and  the  gale  in  my  eye. 

And  when  the  bold  sailor'climbs  the  mast, 

And  sets  his  canvass  gallantly. 
Laughing  at  all  his  perils  past, 

And  seeking  more  on  the  mighty  sea ; 

I'll  flit  to  his  vessel,  and  perch  on  the  truck, 

Or  sing  in  the  hardy  pilot's  ear ; 
That  her  deck  shall  be  like  my  wave-wash'd  rock. 

And  the  top  like  my  nest  when  the  storm  is  near. 

Her  cordage,  the  branches  that  I  will  grace ; 

'     Her  rigging,  the  grove  where  I  will  whistle  ; 

Her  wind-swung  hammock,  my  pairing  place, 

Where  I  by  the  seaboy's  side  will  nestle. 

And  when  the  fight,  like  the  storm,  comes  on, 
'Mid  the  warrior's  shout  and  the  battle's  noise, 

I'll  cheer  him  by  the  deadly  gun, 
'Till  he  loves  the  music  of  its  voice. 

And  if  death's  dark  mist  shall  his  eye  bedim, 

And  they  plunge  him  beneath  the  fathomless  wave, 
11 


122 


A  wild  note  shall  sing  his  requiem, 

And  a  white  wing  flap  o'er  his  early  grave. 


THE  NEWPORT  TOWER. 

When  and  for  what  purpose  this  wds  built,  seems  to  be  matter 
of  dispute.  The  New- York  Statesman  associates  it  with  great 
antiquity — the  Commercial  Mvertiser  gives  it  a  military  charac- 
ter ;  and  the  Rhode-Island  American,  with  a  view,  perhaps,  to 
save  it  from  doggerel  rhymes  and  sickish  paragraphs,  says  it  is 
nothing  but  an  old  windmill — if  such  was  the  plan,  however,  it 
has  not  succeeded. 

There  is  a  rude  old  monument. 
Half  masonry,  half  ruin,  bent 
With  sagging  weight,  as  if  it  meant 

To  warn  one  of  mischance ; 
And  an  old  Indian  may  be  seen, 
Musing  in  sadness  on  the  scene, 
And  casting  on  it  many  a  keen. 

And  many  a  thoughtful  glance. 

When  lightly  sweeps  the  evening  tide 
Old  Narraganset's  shore  beside. 
And  the  canoes  in  safety  ride 
Upon  the  lovely  bay — 


123 

I've  seen  him  gaze  on  that  old  tower, 
At  evening's  calm  and  pensive  hour, 
And  when  the  night  began  to  lour, 
Scarce  tear  himself  away. 

Oft  at  its  foot  I've  seen  him  sit, 
His  willows  trim,  his  walnut  spit, 
And  there  his  seine  he  lov'd  to  knit, 

And  there  its  rope  to  haul ; , 
'Tis  there  he  loves  to  be  alone, 
Gazing  at  every  crumbling  stone. 
And  making  many  an  anxious  moan, 

When  one  is  like  to  fall. 

But  once  he  turn'd  with  furious  look, 
While  high  his  clenched  hand  he  shook. 
And  from  his  brow  his  dark  eye  took 

A  red'ning  glow  of  madness ; 
Yet  when  I  told  him  why  I  came. 
His  wild  and  bloodshot  eye  grew  tame. 
And  bitter  thoughts  pass'd  o'er  its  flame. 

That  chang'd  its  rage  to  sadness. 

"  You  watch  my  step,  and  ask  me  why 
This  ruin  fills  my  straining  eye  ? 
Stranger,  there  is  a  prophecy 

Which  you  may  lightly  heed  : 


124 

Stay  its  fulfilment,  if  you  can  ; 
I  heard  it  of  a  gray-hair'd  man, 
And  thus  the  threat'ning  story  ran, — 
A  boding  tale  indeed. 

"  He  said,  that  when  this  massy  wall 
Down  to  its  very  base  should  fall, 
And  not  one  stone  among  it  all 

Be  left  upon  another. 
Then  should  the  Indian  race  and  kind 
Disperse  like  the  returnless  wind, 
And  no  red  man  be  left  to  find 

One  he  could  call  a  brother. 

"  Now  yon  old  tower  is  falling  fast, 
Kindred  and  friends  away  are  pass'd  ; 
Oh  !  that  my  father's  soul  may  cast 

Upon  my  grave  its  shade. 
When  some  good  Christian  man  shall  place 
O'er  me,  the  last  of  all  my  race. 
The  last  old  stone  that  falls,  to  grace         • 

The  spot  where  I  am  laid." 


THE  ROBBER.* 

The  moon  hangs  lightly  on  yon  western  hill ; 
And  now  it  gives  a  parting  look,  like  one 
Who  sadly  leaves  the  guilty.     You  and  I 
Must  watch,  when  all  is  dark,  and  steal  along 
By  these  lone  trees,  and  wait  for  plunder. — Hush  ! 
I  hear  the  coming  of  some  luckless  wheel, 
Bearing  we  know  not  what — perhaps  the  wealth 
Torn  from  the  needy,  to  be  hoarded  up 
By  those  who  only  count  it ;  and  perhaps 
The  spendthrift's  losses,  or  the  gambler's  gains, 
The  thjiving  merchant's  rich  remittances, 
Or  the  small  trifle  some  poor  serving  girl 
Sends  to  her  poorer  parents.     But  come  on — 
Be  cautious. — There — 'tis  done  ;  and  now  away, 

•  Two  large  bags  containing  newspapers,  were  stolen  from 
the  boot  behind  the  Southern  Mail  Coach  yfesterday  morning, 
about  one  o'clock,  between  New-Brunswick  and  Bridgetown. 
The  straps  securing  the  bags  in  the  boot  were  cut,  and  nothing 
else  injured  or  removed  therefrom.  The  letter  mails  are  always 
carried  in  the  front  boot  of  the  coach,  under  the  driver's  feet,  and 
therefore  cannot  be  so  easily  approached. — JV.  Y.  Eve.  Post, 
11* 


126 

With  breath  drawn  in,  and  noiseless  step,  to  seek 
The  darkness  that  befits  so  dark  a  deed. 
Now  strike  your  hght. — Ye  powers  that  look  upon  us  ! 
What  have  we  here  ?  Whigs,  Sentinels,  Gazettes, 
Heralds,  and  Posts,  and  Couriers — Mercuries, 
Recorders,  Advertisers,  and  Intelligencers — 
Advocates  and  Auroras. — There,  what's  that ! 
That's — a  Price  Current. 

I  do  venerate 
The  man,  who  rolls  the  smooth  and  silky  sheet 
Upon  the  well  cut  copper.     I  respect 
The  worthier  names  of  those  who  sign  bank  bills ; 
And,  though  no  literary  man,  I  love 
To  read  their  short  and  pithy  sentences. 
But  I  hate  types  and  printers — and  the  gang 
Of  editors  and  scribblers.     Their  remarks,  .jj 

Essays,  songs,  paragraphs  and  prophecies, 
I  utterly  detest.     And  these,  particularly. 
Are  just  the  meanest  and  most  rascally, 
"  Stale  and  unprofitable"  publications, 
I  ever  read  in  my  life. 


THE  GUERRILLA. 

Though  friends  are  false,  and  leaders  fail, 

And  rulers  quake  with  fear  ; 
Though  tam'd  the  shepherd  in  the  vale, 

Though  slain  the  mountaineer ; 
I,  Though  Spanish  beauty  fill  their  arms, 

And  Spanish  gold  their  purse — 
Sterner  than  wealth's  or  war's  alarms. 

Is  the  wild  Guerrilla's  curse. 

No  trumpets  range  us  to  the  fight : 

No  signal  sound  of  drum 
Tells  to  the  foe,  that  in  their  might 

The  hostile  squadrons  come. 
No  sunbeam  glitters  on  our  spears, 

No  warlike  tramp  of  steeds 
Gives  warning — for  the  first  that  hears 

Shall  be  the  first  that  bleeds.  * 

The  night  breeze  calls  us  from  our  bed, 

At  dewfall  forms  the  line. 
And  darkness  gives  the  signal  dread 

That  makes  our  ranks  combine : 


128 

Or  should  some  straggling  moonbeam  lie 

On  copse  or  lurking  hedge, 
'Twould  flash  but  from  a  Spaniard's  eye, 

Or  from  a  dagger's  edge. 

'Tis  clear  in  the  sweet  vale  below, 

And  misty  on  the  hill ; 
The  skies  shine  mildly  on  the  foe, 

But  lour  upon  us  still. 
This  gathering  storm  shall  quickly  burst, 

And  spread  its  terrors  far, 
And  at  its  front  we'll  be  the  first. 

And  with  it  go  to  war. 

Oh !  the  mountain  peak  shall  safe  remain- 

'Tis  the  vale  shall  be  despoil'd, 
And  the  tame  hamlets  of  the  plain 

With  ruin  shall  run  wild  ; 
But  Liberty  shall  breathe  our  air 

Upon  the  mountain  head. 
And  Freedom's  breezes  wander  here, 

Here  all  their  fragrance  shed. 


JACK  FROST  AND  THE  CATY-DID. 

JACK  FROST. 

I  heard — 'twas  on  an  Autumn  night — 

A  httle  song  from  yonder  tree ; 
'Twas  a  Caty-did,  in  the  branches  hid. 

And  thus  sung  he : 

"  Fair  Caty  sat  beside  yon  stream, 

Beneath  the  chesnut  tree  ; 
Each  star  sent  forth  its  brightest  gleam. 
And  the  moon  let  fall  her  softest  beam 

On  Caty  and  on  me. 

And  thus  she  wish'd — *  O,  could  I  sing 

Like  the  little  birds  in  May, 
With  a  satin  breast  and  a  silken  wing, 
And  a  leafy  home  by  this  gentle  spring, 

I'd  chirp  as  blithe  as  they. 

The  Frog  in  the  water,  the  Cricket  on  land, 

The  Night-hawk  in  the  sky. 
With  the  Whipperwill  should  be  my  band, 


130 

While  gayly  by  the  streamlet's  sand, 
The  lightning-bug  should  fly/ 

Her  wish  is  granted — Off  she  flings 

The  robes  that  her  beauty  hid ; 
She  wraps  herself  in  her  silken  wings, 
And  near  me  now  she  sits  and  sings, 
And  tells  what  Caty  did." 


A  beam  from  the  waning  moon  was  shot. 

Where  the  little  minstrel  hid, 
A  cobweb  from  the  cloud  was  let, 

And  down  I  boldly  slid. 

A  hollow  hailstone  on  my  head, 
For  a  glittering  helm  was  clasp'd, 

And  a  sharpen'd  spear,  like  an  icicle  clear, 
In  my  cold  little  fingers  was  grasp'd. 

Silent,  and  resting  on  their  arms, 

I  viewed  my  forces  nigh. 
Waiting  the  sign  on  earth  to  land. 

Or  bivouac  in  the  sky. 

From  a  birchen  bough,  which  yellow  turn'd 

Beneath  my  withering  lance  ; 
I  pointed  them  to  that  glassy  pool, 

And  silently  they  advanc'd. 


131 

The  water  crisp'd  beneath  their  feet, 

It  never  felt  their  weights ; 
And  nothing  but  the  rising  sun, 

Show'd  traces  of  their  skates. 

No  horn  I  sounded,  no  shout  I  made, 

But  I  Hfted  my  vizor  hd, 
My  felt-shod  foot  on  the  leaf  I  put, 

And  kill'd  the  Caty-did. 

Her  song  went  down  the  southern  wind, 
Her  last  breath  up  the  stream  ; 

But  a  rustling  branch  is  left  behind. 
To  fan  her  wakeless  dream. 


ON    THE 

DEATH  OF  MR.  WOODWARD, 
AT  EDINBURGH. 


"  The  spider's  most  attenuated  thread, 

Is  cord — is  cable,  to  man's  tender  tie 

On  earthly  bliss  ;  it  breaks  at  every  breeze." 

Another !  'tis  a  sad  word  to  the  heart, 

That  one  by  one  has  lost  its  hold  on  life. 
From  all  it  lov'd  or  valued,  forc'd  to  part 

In  detail.     Feeling  dies  not  by  the  knife 

That  cuts  at  once  and  kills — its  tortur'd  strife 
Is  with  distilled  affliction,  drop  by  drop 

Oozing  its  bitterness.     Our  world  is  rife 
With  grief  and  sorrow  ;  all  that  we  would  prop. 
Or  would  be  propp'd  with,  falls — when  shall  the  ruin 
stop ! 

The  sea  has  one,  and  Palestine  has  one. 

And  Scotland  has  the  last.     Thft  snooded  maid 


133 

Shall  gaze  in  wonder  on  the  stranger's  stone, 
And  wipe  the  dust  off  with  her  tartsin  plaid — 
And  from  the  lonely  tomb  where  thou  art  laid, 

Turn  to  some  other  monument — nor  know 

Whose  grave  she  passes,  or  whose  name  she  read  ; 

Whose  lov'd  and  honoured  relics  lie  below  ; 

Whose  is  immortal  joy,  and  whose  is  mortal  wo. 

There  is  a  world  of  bliss  hereafter — else 
Why  are  the  bad  above,  the  good  beneath 

The  green  grass  of  the  grave  ?  The  Mower  fells 
Flowers  and  briers  alike.     But  man  shall  breathe 
(When  he  his  desolating  blade  shall  sheathe 

And  rest  him  from  his  work)  in  a  pure  sky, 

Above  the  smoke  of  burning  worlds ; — and  Death 

On  scorched  pinions  with  the  dead  shall  lie. 

When  time,  with  all  his  years  and  centuries,  has  pass- 
ed by. 


TO  THE  DEAD. 

How  many  now  are  dead  to  me 

That  live  to  others  yet ! 

How  many  are  alive  to  me 

Who  crumble  in  their  graves,  nor  see 
12 


134 

That  sickning,  sinking  look  which  we 
Till  dead  can  ne'er  lorget. 

Beyond  the  blue  seas,  far  away, 

Must  wretche  ;ly  alone, 
One  died  in  prison — far  away. 
Where  stone  on  stone  shut  out  the  day. 
And  never  hope,  or  comfort's  ray 

In  his  lone  dungeon  shone. 

Dead  to  the  world,  alive  to  me  ; 

Though  months  and  years  have  pass'd. 
In  a  lone  hour,  his  sigh  to  me 
Comes  like  the  hum  of  some  wild  bee, 
And  then  his  form  and  face  I  see 

As  when  I  saw  him  last. 

And  one  with  a  bright  lip,  and  cheek, 

And  eye,  is  dead  to  me. 
How  pale  the  bloom  of  his  smooth  cheek ! 
His  lip  was  cold — it  would  not  speak  ; 
His  heart  was  dead,  for  it  did  not  break  ; 

And  his  eye,  for  it  did  not  see. 

Then  for  the  living  be  the  tomb, 

And  for  the  dead  the  smile  ; 
Engrave  oblivion  on  the  tomb 


135 


Of  pulseless  life  and  deadly  bloom — 
Dim  is  such  glare  :  but  bright  the  gloom 
Around  the  funeral  pile. 


THE  DEEP. 


There's  beauty  in  the  deep  : 
The  wave  is  bluer  than  the  sky ; 
And  though  the  lights  shine  bright  on  high, 
More  softly  do  the  sea-gems  glow 
That  sparkle  in  the  depths  below  ; 
The  rainbow's  tints  are  only  made 
When  on  the  waters  they  are  laid, 
And  Sun  and  Moon  most  sweetly  shine 
Upon  the  ocean's  level  brine. 

There's  beauty  in  the  deep. 

There's  music  in  the  deep : — 
It  is  not  in  the  surfs  rough  roar. 
Nor  in  the  whispering,  shelly  shore — 
They  are  but  earthly  sounds,  that  tell 
How  little  of  the  sea  nymph's  shell. 
That  sends  its  loud,  clear  note  abroad. 
Or  winds  its  softness  through  the  flood. 


136 

Echoes  through  groves  with  coral  gay, 
And  dies,  on  spongy  banks,  away. 
There's  music  in  the  deep. 

There's  quiet  in  the  deep  : — 
Above,  let  tides  and  tempests  rave, 
And  earth-born  whirlwinds  wake  the  wave  ; 
Above,  let  care  and  fear  contend, 
With  sin  and  sorrow  to  the  end  : 
Here,  far  beneath  the  tainted  foam. 
That  frets  above  our  peaceful  home. 
We  dream  in  joy,  and  wake  in  love. 
Nor  know  the  rage  that  yells  above. 

There 's  quiet  in  the  deep. 


THE  GOOD  SAMARITAN. 

Who  bleeds  in  the  desert,  faint,  naked,  and  torn, 
Left  lonely  to  wait  for  the  coming  of  morn  ? 
The  last  sigh  from  his  breast,  the  last  drop  from  his  heart. 
The  last  tear  from  his  eyelid,  seem  ready  to  part. 
He  looks  to  the  east  with  a  death-swimming  eye, 
Once  more  the  blest  beams  of  the  morning  to  spy ; 
For  penny  less,  friendless,  and  houseless  he's  lying, 


137 

And  he  shudders  to  think,  that  in  darkness  he 's  dying. 

Yon  meteor  ! — 'tis  ended  as  soon  as  begun — 

Yon  gleam  of  the  lightning  !  it  is  not  the  sun  ; 

They  brighten  and  pass — but  the  glory  of  day 

Is  warm  while  it  shines,  and  does  good  on  its  way. 

How  brightly  the  morning  breaks  out  from  the  east ! 

Who  walks  down  the  path  to  get  tithes  for  his  priest  ?* 

It  is  not  the  Robber  who  plundered  and  fled  ; 

'Tis  a  Levite.     He  turns  from  the  wretched  his  head. 

Who  walks  in  his  robes  from  Jerusalem's  halls  ? 

Who  comes  to  Samaria  from  Ilia's  walls  ? 

There  is  pride  in  his  step — there  is  hate  in  his  eye  ; 

There  is  scorn  on  his  lip,  as  he  proudly  walks  by. 

'Tis  thy  Priest,  thou  proud  city,  now  splendid  and  fair ; 

A  few  years  shall  pass  thee, — and  who  shall  be  there  1 

Mount  Gerizim  looks  on  the  valleys  that  spread 
From  the  foot  of  high  Ebal,  to  Esdrelon's  head ; 
The  torrent  of  Kison  rolls  black  through  the  plain, 
And  Tabor  sends  out  its  fresh  floods  to  that  main. 
Which,  purpled  with  fishes,  flows  rich  with  the  dies 
That  flash  from  their  fins,  and  shine  out  from  their  eyes.f 

*  Numbers,  xviii. 

t  D'Anville,  bv  the  way,  says  the  fish  from  which   the  famous 
purple  die  was  obtained  were  shell-fish  :  but  this  is  doubted. 

12* 


138 

How  sweet  are  the  streams :  but  how  purer  the  fountaiiv 
That  gushes  and  swells  from  Samaria's  mountain  ! 

From  Galilee's  city  the  Cuthitc  comes  out, 

And  by  Jordan-wash'd  Thirza,  with  purpose  devout, 

To  pray  at  the  altar  of  Gerizim's  shrine, 

And  offer  his  incense  of  oil  and  of  wine. 

He  follows  his  heart,  that  with  eagerness  longs 

For  Samaria's  anthems,  and  Syria's  songs. 

He  sees  the  poor  Hebrew  :    he  stops  on  the  wny. 
— By  the  side  of  the  wretched  "tis  better  to  pray. 
Than  to  visit  the  holiest  temple  that  stands 
In  the  thrice  blessed  places  of  Palestine's  lands. 
The  oil  that  was  meant  for  Mount  Gerizim's  ground. 
Would  better  be  pour'd  on  the  sufferers  wound  ; 
For  no  inr"-ense  more  sweetly,  more  purely  can  rise 
From  the  altiirs  of  earth  to  the  throne  of  the  skies, 
No  libat.on  more  rich  can  be  offer'd  below. 
Than  that  which  is  tendered  to  anjjuish  and  wo. 


SALMON  RIVER.* 


Hie  \nridi.s  tenera  praiLe::it  arundine  ripa3 
Miiicius. — Virgil. 


Tis  a  sweet  stream— and  so,  'tis  true,  are  all 
That  undisturb'd,  sive  by  the  liarmless  brawl 
Of  mimic  rapid  or  slight  waterfall, 

Pursue  their  way 
By  mossy  bank,  and  darkly  waving  wood, 
By  rock,  that  since  ths  deluge  fix'd  has  stood, 
Showing  to  sun  and  moon  their  ciisping  flood 

By  night  and  day. 

But  yet  there 's  sometlnng  in  its  humble  rank. 
Something  in  its  pure  wave  and  sloping  bank, 
Where  the  deer  sported,  and  the  young  fawn  drank 

With  unscar'd  look  ; 
There  's  much  in  its  wild  history,  that  teems 
With  all  that's   superstitious — and  that  seems 

•T]u3  river  enters  into  llic  Connecticut  at  East  Haddara. 


140 

To  match  our  fancy  and  eke  out  our  dreams, 
In  that  small  brook. 

Havoc  has  bsen  upon  its  peaceful  plain, 

And  blood  has  dropp'd  there,  like  the  drops  of  rain  ; 

The  corn  grows  o'er  the  still  graves  of  the  slain — 

And  many  a  quiver, 
Fill'd  from  the  reeds  that  grew  on  yonder  hill, 
Has  spent  itself  in  carnage.     Now  'tis  still, 
And  whistling  ploughboys  oft  their  runlets  fill 

From  Salmon  River. 

Here,  say  old  msn,  the  Indian  Magi  made 
Their  spells  by  moonlight ;  or  beneath  the  shade 
That  shrouds  scqucster'd  rock,  or  darkning  glade. 

Or  tangled  dell. 
Here  Philip  came,  and  Miantonimo, 
And  asked  about  their  fortunes  long  ago, 
As  Saul  to  Endor,  that  her  witch  might  show 

Old  Samuel. 

And  here  the  black  fox  rov'd,  and  howl'd,  and  shook 
His  thick  tail  to  the  hunters,  by  the  brook 
Where  they  pursued  their  game,  aud  him  mistook 

For  earthly  fox ; 
Thinking  to  shoot  him  like  a  shaggy  bear, 
And  his  soft  peltry,  stript  and  dress'd,  to  wear. 


141 

Or  lay  a  trap,  and  from  his  quiet  lair 
Transfer  him  to  a  box. 

Such  are  the  tales  thsy  tell.     'Tis  hard  to  rhyme 
About  a  little  and  unnoticed  stream, 
That  few  have  heard  of — but  it  is  a  theme 

I  chance  to  love  ; 
And  one  day  I  may  tune  my  rye-siraw  reed, 
And  whistle  to  the  note  of  many  a  deed 
Done  on  this  river — which,  if  there  be  need, 

I'll  try  to  prove. 


The  lines  below  are  founded  on  a  legend,  that  is  as  well 
authenticated  as  any  superstition  of  tiie  kind;  and  as  current  in 
the  place  where  it  oritrinated,  as  could  be  expected  of  one  that 
possesses  so  little  interest. 

THE  BLACK  FOX 

OF  SALMON  RIVER. 

"How  cold,  how  beautiful,  how  bright, 
The  cloudless  heaven  above  us  shines  ; 

But  'tis  a  howling  winter's  night — 
'Twould  freeze  the  very  forest  pines. 


142 

♦'  The  winds  are  up,  while  mortals  sleep ; 

The  stars  look  forth  when  eyes  are  shut ; 
The  bolted  snow  lies  drifted  deep 

Around  our  poor  and  lonely  hut. 

"  With  silent  step  and  listening  ear, 
With  bow  and  arrow,  dog  and  gun, 

We  '11  mark  his  track,  for  his  prowl  we  hear, 
Now  is  our  time — come  on,  come  on," 

O'er  many  a  fence,  through  many  a  wood, 
Following  the  dog's  bewildered  scent, 

In  anxious  haste  and  earnest  mood. 
The  Indian  and  the  white  man  went. 

The  gun  is  cock'd,  the  bow  is  bent. 
The  dog  stands  with  uplifted  paw, 

And  ball  and  arrow  swift  are  sent, 
Aim'd  at  the  prowler's  very  jaw. 

— The  balli  to  kill  that  fox,  is  run 
Not  in  a  mould  by  mortals  made  ! 

The  arrow  that  that  fox  should  shun. 
Was  never  shap'd  from  earthly  reed  ! 

The  Indian  Druids  of  the  wood 

Know  where  the  fatal  arrows  grow— 


143 

They  spring  not  by  the  summer  flood, 

They  pierc6  not  through  the  winter  snow  ! 

Why  cowers  the  dog,  whose  snuffing  nose 
Was  never  oncfe  deceiv'd  till  now  ? 

And  why,  amid  the  chilling  snows, 
Does  either  hunter  wipe  his  brow  ? 

For  once  they  see  his  fearful  den, 
'Tis  a  dark  cloud  that  slowly  moves 

By  night  around  the  homes  of  men, 
By  day — along  the  stream  it  loves. 

Again  the  doof  is  on  his  track, 

The  hunters  chase  o'er  dale  and  hill, 

They  may  not,  though  they  would,  look  back» 
They  must  go  forward — forward  still. 

Onward  they  go,  and  never  turn. 

Spending  a  night  that  meets  no  day ; 

For  them  shall  never  morning  sun, 
Light  them  upon  their  endless  way. 

The  hut  is  desolate,  and  there 
The  famish'd  dog  alone  returns ; 

On  the  cold  steps  he  makes  his  lair, 
By  the  shut  door  he  lays  his  bones. 


144 

Now  the  tir'd  sportsman  leans  his  gun 

Against  the  ruins  of  the  site, 
And  ponders  on  the  hunting  done 

By  the  lost  wanderers  of  the  night. 

And  there  the  little  country  girls 

Will  stop  to  whisper,  and  listen,  and  look, 

And  tell,  while  dressing  their  sunny  curls, 
Of  the  Black  Fox  of  Salmon  Brook. 


ISAIAH  THIRTY-FIFTH  CHAPTER 

A  rose  shall  bloom  in  the  lonely  place, 
A  wild  shall  echo  with  sounds  of  joy, 

For  heaven's  own  gladness  its  bounds  shall  grace, 
And  forms  angelic  their  songs  employ. 

And  Lebanon's  cedars  shall  rustle  their  boughs, 
And  fan  their  leaves  in  the  scented  air ; 

And  Carmel  and  Sharon  shall  pay  their  vows, 
And  shout,  for  the  glory  of  God  is  there. 

O,  say  to  the  fearful,  be  strong  of  heart. 
He  comes  in  vengeance,  but  not  for  thee ; 


145 

For  thee  he  comes,  his  might  to  impart 
To  the  trembling  hand  and  the  feeble  knee. 

The  bhnd  shall  see,  the  deaf  shall  hear, 
The  dumb  shall  raise  their  notes  for  him, 

The  lame  shall  leap  like  the  unharm'd  deer, 
And  the  thirsty  shall  drink  of  the  holy  stream. 

And  the  parched  ground  shall  become  a  pool. 
And  the  thirsty  land  a  dew-wash'd  mead, 

And  where  the  wildest  beasts  held  rule, 
The  harmless  of  his  fold  shall  feed. 

There  is  a  way,  an-d  a  holy  way, 

Where  the  unclean  foot  shall  never  tread, 

But  from  it  the  lowly  shall  not  stray, 
To  it  the  penitent  shall  be  led. 

No  lion  shall  rouse  him  from  his  lair. 
Nor  wild  beast  raven  in  foaming  rage; 

But  the  redeemed  of  the  earth  shall  there 
Pursue  their  peaceful  pilgrimage. 

The  ransom'd  of  God  shall  return  to  hira 
With  the  chorus  of  joy  to  an  Angel's  lay ; 

With  a  tear  of  grief  shall  no  eye  be  dim, 
For  sorrow  and  sighing  shall  jflee  away. 
13 


J 


THE  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

What  is  there  sadd'ning  in  the  Autumn  leaves  ? 
Have  they  that  "  green  and  yellow  melancholy'^ 
That  the  sweet  poet  spake  of? — Had  he  seen 
Our  variegated  woods,  when  first  the  frost 
Turns  into  beauty  all  October's  charms — 
When  the  dread  fever  quits  us — when  the  storms 
Of  the  wild  Equinox,  with  all  its  wet, 
Has  left  the  land,  as  the  first  deluge  left  it, 
With  a  bright  bow  of  many  colours  hung 
Upon  the  forest  tops — he  had  not  sigh'd. 

The  moon  stays  longest  for  the  Hunter  now : 
The  trees  cast  down  their  fruitage,  and  the  blithe 
And  busy  squirrel  hoards  his  winter  store : 
While  man  enjoys  the  breeze  that  sweeps  along 
The  bright  blue  sky  above  him,  and  that  bends 
Magnificently  all  the  forest's  pride, 
Or  whispers  through  the  evergreens,  and  asks, 
"  What  is  there  sadd'ning  in  the  Autumn  leaves  ?" 


THE  THUNDER  STORM. 

Two  persons,  an  old  lady  and  a  girl,  were  killed  by  lightning, 
in  the  Presbyterian  Meeting-House  in  Montville,  on  Sunday  the 
1st  of  June,  1823,  while  the  congregation  were  singing.  The 
following  is  not  an  exaggerated  account  of  the  particulars. 

The  Sabbath  morn  came  sweetly  on, 
The  sunbeams  mildly  shone  upon 

Each  rock,  and  tree,  and  flower ; 
And  floating  on  the  southern  gale, 
The  clouds  se^m'd  gloriously  to  sail 
Along  the  heavens  as  if  to  hail 

That  calm  and  holy  hour. 

By  winding  path  and  alley  green, 

The  lightsome  and  the  young  were  seen 

To  join  the  gathering  throng ; 
While  with  slow  step  and  solemn  look, 
The  elders  of  the  village  took 
Their  way,  and  as  with  age  they  shook, 

Went  reverently  along. 

They  meet — the  "  sweet  psalm-tune"  they  raise  ; 
They  join  their  grateful  hearts,  and  praise 


148 

The  Maker  they  adore. 
They  met  in  holy  joy ;  but  they 
Grieve  now,  who  saw  His  wrath  that  day, 
And  sadly  went  they  all  away, 

And  better  than  before. 

There  was  one  cloud,  that  overcast 
The  valley  and  the  hill,  nor  past 

Like  other  mists  away : 
It  mov'd  not  round  the  circling  sweep 
Of  the  clear  sky,  but  dark  and  deep, 
Came  down  upon  them  sheer  and  steep, 

Where  they  had  met  to  pray. 

One  single  flash !  it  rent  the  spire. 
And  pointed  downward  all  its  fire — 

What  could  its  power  withstay  ? 
There  was  an  aged  head  ;  and  there 
Was  beauty  in  its  youth,  and  fair 
Floated  the  young  locks  of  her  hair — 

It  call'd  them  both  away ! 

The  Sabbath  eve  went  sweetly  down  ; 
Its  parting  sunbeams  mildly  shone 
Upon  each  rock  and  flower ; 
And  gently  blew  the  southern  gale, 
—But  on  it  was  a  voice  of  wail, 


149 


And  eyes  wefe  \^et,  and  cheeks  were  pale, 
In  that  sad  evening  hour. 


TO  A  MISSIONARY, 

WHO    ATTENDED    THE    LATE    MEETING    OP    THE    BIBLE 
SOCIETY    AT    NEW-YORK. 

Why  should  thy  heart  grow  faint,  thy  cheek  be  pale  ? 

Why  in  thine  eye  should  hang  the  frequent  tear, 
As  if  the  promise  of  your  God  would  fail, 

And  you  and  all  be  left  to  doubt  and  fear? 

Doubt  not,  fo  Aoly  men  are  gathered  here  ; 
Fear  not,  for  holy  thoughts  surround  the  place, 
fc--  And  angel  pinions  hover  round,  to  bear 
To  their  bright  homes  the  triumphs  of  his  grace, 
Whose  word  all  sin  and  ^hame,  all  sorrow  shall  efface. 

Pure  as  a  cherub's  wishes  be  thy  thought. 
For  in  thine  ear  are  heavenly  whisperings  ; 

And  strong  thy  purposes,  as  though  they  sought 
To  do  the  errand  of  the  King  of  Kings, 
And  if  thy  heart  be  right,  his  mantle  flings 

Its  glorious  folds  of  charity  around 

Thine  earthly  feelings ;  and  the  tuneful  strings 
13* 


150 

Of  Harps  in  heaven  shall  vibrate  to  the  sound 
Of  thy  soul's  prayer  from  earth,  if  thou  art  contrite 
found. 

Go  then,  and  prosper.     He  has  promised  all — - 

All  that  instructed  zeal  can  need  or  ask ; 
And  thou  art  summon'd  with  too  loud  a  call. 

To  hesitate  and  tremble  at  thy  task. 

Let  scoffers  in  their  glimpse  of  sunshine  bask. 
And  note  thy  pilgrimage  in  other  light : 

Their's  is  a  look  that  peeps  but  through  a  mask  ; 
Thine  is  an  open  path,  too  plain,  too  bright 
For  those  who  dose  by  day,  and  see  but  in  the  night. 


SONNET  TO  THE  SEA  SERPENT. 


"  Huffest  that  swims  the  ocean  stream." 


Welter  upon  the  waters,  mighty  one — 
And  stretch  thee  in  the  ocean's  trough  of  brine ; 

Turn  thy  wet  scales  up  to  the  wind  and  sun, 
And  toss  the  billow  from  thy  flashing  fin ; 
'Heave  thy  deep  breathings  to  the  ocean's  din. 


151 

And  bound  upon  its  ridges  in  thy  pride : 

Or  dive  down  to  its  lowest  depths,  and  in 
The  caverns  w  here  its  unknown  monsters  hide, 
Measure  thy  length  beneath  the  gulf-stream  tide- 

Or  rest  thee  on  the  naval  of  that  sea 
Where,  floating  on  the  Maelstrom,  abide 

The  krakans  sheltering  under  Norway's  lee; 
But  go  not  to  Nahant,  lest  men  should  swear. 
You  are  a  great  deal  bigger  than  you  are. 


"AES  ALIENUM." 

Hispania!  oh,  Hispania!  once  my  home — 
How  hath  thy  fall  degraded  every  son 
Who  owns  thee  for  a  birth  place.     They  who  walk 
Thy  marbled  courts  and  holy  sanctuaries, 
Or  tread  thy  olive  groves,  and  pluck  the  grapes 
That  cluster  there — or  dance  the  saraband 
By  moonlight,  to  some  Moorish  melody — 
Or  whistle  with  the  Muleteer,  along 
Thy  goat-climbed  rocks  and  awful  precipices; 
How  do  the  nations  scorn  them  and  deride  ! 
And  they  who  wander  where  a  Spanish  tongue 
Was  never  heard,  and  where  a  Spanish  heart 


152 

Had  never  beat  before,  how  poor,  how  shunn'd, 
Avoided,  undervalued,  and  debased, 
Move  they  among  the  foreign  multitudes ! 
Once  I  was  bright  to  the  world's  eye,  and  pass'd 
Among  the  nobles  of  my  native  land 
In  Spain's  armorial  bearings,  deck'd  and  stamp'd 
With  Royalty's  insignia,  and  I  claimed 
And  took  the  station  of  my  high  descent ; 
But  the  cold  world  has  cut  a  cantle  out 
From  my  escutcheon — and  now  here  I  am, 
A  poor,  depreciated  pistareen.* 


MR.    MERRY  S 

LAMENT  FOR  "LONG  TOM,'' 

Whose  Drotv7iing  is  mentioned  in  the  sixth  chapter  of  the 

second  volume  of  The  Pilot,  by  the  author  of 

The  Pioneers. 


"Let  lis  tliink  of  tliem  that  sleep 
Full  many  a  latlioni  deep, 
By  tiiy  wild  and  stormy  steep, 
Elsinore." 


Thy  cruise  is  over  now 
Thou  art  anchored  by  the  shore, 

*  This  coin  passed  at  the  time  for  but  eighteen  cents. 


153 

And  never  more  shalt  thou 

Hear  the  storm  around  thee  roar ; 
Death  hath  shaken  out  the  sands  of  thy  glass. 
Now  around  thee  sports  the  whale, 
And  the  porpoise  snuffs  the  gale, 
And  the  night- winds  wake  their  wail, 
As  they  pass. 

The  sea-grass  round  thy  bier 

Shall  bend  beneath  the  tide, 

Nor  tell  the  breakers  near, 

Where  thy  manly  limbs  abide  ; 

But  the  granite  rock  thy  tomb  stone  shall  be. 

Though  the  edges  of  thy  grave 

Are  the  combings  of  the  wave — 

Yet  unheeded  they  shall  rave 
Over  thee. 

At  the  piping  of  all  hands, 

When  the  judgment  signal's  spread- 
When  the  islands,  and  the  lands, 
And  the  seas  give  up  their  dead. 
And  the  south  and  the  north  shall  come  : 
When  the  sinner  is  betray'd, 
And  the  just  man  is  afraid. 
Then  Heaven  be  thy  aid, 
Poor  Tom. 


ONE  THAT'S  ON  THE  SEA. 

With  gallant  sail  and  streamer  gay, 

Sweeping  along  the  splendid  bay, 

That  throng'd  by  thousands,  seems  to  greet 

The  bearer  of  a  precious  freight, 

The  Cadmus  comes  ;  and  every  wave 

Is  glad  the  welcom'd  prow  to  lave. 

What  are  the  ship  and  freight  to  me — 
I  look  for  one  that's  on  the  sea. 

"  Welcome  Fayette,"  the  million  cries ; 
From  heart  to  heart  the  ardour  flies, 
And  drum,  and  bell,  and  cannon  noise, 
In  concord  with  a  nation's  voice, 
Is  pealing  through  a  grateful  land. 
And  all  go  with  him. — Here  I  stand. 
Musing  on  one  that's  dear  to  me. 
Yet  sailing  on  the  dangerous  sea. 

Be  thy  days  happy  here,  Fayette — 
Long  may  they  be  so — long — but  yet 
To  me  there's  one  that,  dearest  still, 
Clings  to  my  heart  and  chains  my  will, 


155 

His  languid  limbs  and  feverish  head 

Are  laid  upon  a  sea-sick  bed. 

Perhaps  his  thoughts  are  fixed  on  me, 
"While  toss'd  upon  the  mighty  sea. 

I  am  alone.     Let  thousands  throng 
The  noisy,  crowded  streets  along : 
Sweet  be  the  beam  of  Beauty's  gaze — 
Loud  be  the  shout  that  Freemen  raise — 
Let  patriots  grasp  thy  noble  hand, 
And  welcome  thee  to  Freedom's  land ; — 
Alas  !  I  think  of  none  but  he 
Who  sails  across  the  foaming  sea. 

So,  when  the  moon  is  shedding  light 
Upon  the  stars,  and  all  is  bright 
And  beautiful ;  when  every  eye 
Looks  upwards  to  the  glorious  sky ; 
How  have  I  turn'd  my  silent  gaze 
To  catch  one  little  taper's  blaze : — 

'Twas  from  a  spot  too  dear  to  me, 
The  home  of  him  that's  on  the  sea. 


WRITTEN  IN  A 
COMMON-PLACE  BOOK. 

See  to  your  book,  young  lady ;  let  it  be 
An  index  to  your  life — each  page  be  pure, 
By  vanity  unclouded,  and  by  vice 
Unspotted.     Cheerful  be  each  modest  leaf, 
Not  rude  ;  and  pious  be  each  written  page. 
Without  hypocrisy,  be  it  devout ; 
Without  moroseness,  be  it  serious ; 
If  sportive,  innocent :  and  if  a  tear 
Blot  its  white  margin,  let  it  drop  for  those 
Whose  wickedness  needs  pity  more  than  hate. 
Hate  no  one — hate  their  vices,  not  themselves. 
Spare  many  leaves  for  charity — that  flower 
That  better  than  the  rose's  first  white  bud 
Becomes  a  woman's  bosom.     There  we  seek 
And  there  we  find  it  first.     Such  be  your  book. 
And  such,  young  lady,  always  may  you  be. 


ON  THE  LOSS  OF 
A   PIOUS    FRIEND. 

Imitated  from  the  dlth  chapter  of  Isaiah. 

Who  shall  weep  when  the  righteous  die  ? 

Who  shall  mourn  when  the  good  depart  ? 
When  the  soul  of  the  godly  away  shall  fly, 

Who  shall  lay  the  loss  to  heart  ?  * 

He  has  gone  into  peace — he  has  laid  him  down 
To  sleep  till  the  dawn  of  a  brighter  day  ; 

And  he  shall  wake  on  that  holy  morn, 
When  sorrow  and  sighing  shall  flee  away. 

But  ye  who  worship  in  sin  and  shame 

Your  idol  gods,  what  e're  they  be  ; 
Who  scoff"  in  your  pride  at  your  Makers  name, 

By  the  pebbly  stream  and  the  shady  tree — 

Hope  in  your  mountains,  and  hope  in  your  streams, 
Bow  down  in  their  worship  and  loudly  pray  ; 

Trust  in  your  strength  and  believe  in  your  dreams, 
But  the  wind  shall  carry  them  all  away. 
14 


168 

There's  one  who  drank  at  a  purer  fountain. 
One  who  was  washed  in  a  purer  flood : 

He  shall  inherit  a  holier  mountain, 
He  shall  worship  a  holier  Lord. 

But  the  sinner  shall  utterly  fail  and  die — 
Whelni'd  in  the  wave  of  a  troubled  sea ; 

And  God  from  his  throne  of  light  on  high 
Shall  say,  there  is  no  peace  for  thee. 


THE  TWO  COMETS. 

There  were  two  visible  at  the  time  this  was  written  ;  and  lii 
the  verses,  they  were,  on  other  accounts,  strictly  occasional. 

There  once  dwelt  in  Olympus  some  notable  odditie 
For  their  wild  singularities  call'd  Gods  and  Goddesses.- 
But  one  in  particular  beat  'em  all  hollow, 
Whose  name,  style  and  title  was  Phoebus  Apollo. 

Now  Phoeb.  was  a  genius — his  hand  he  could  turn 
To  any  thing,  every  thing  genius  can  learn : 
Bright,  sensible,  graceful,  cute,  spirited,  handy. 
Well  bred,  well  behav'd — a  celestial  Dandy ! 
An  eloquent  god,  though  he  didn't  'say  much  ; 


159 

fjut  he  drew  a  long  bow,   spoke   Greek,    Latin  and 

Dutch ; 
1  doctor,  a  poet,  a  soarer,  a  diver, 
ind  of  horses  in  harness  an  excellent  driver. 

He  would  tackle  his  steeds  to  the  wheels  of  the  sun, 
ind  he  drove  up  the  east  every  morning,  but  one ; 
Vhen  young  Phaeton  begg'd  of  his  daddy  at  five, 
'o  stay  with  Aurora  a  day,  and  hed  drive. 

0  good  natur'd  Phoebus  gave  Phaey  the  seat, 

iTith  his  mittens,  change,  waybill,  and  stage-horn  com- 

Iplete ; 
'o  the  breeze  of  the  morning  he  shook  his  bright  locks, 
lew  the  lamps  of  the  night  out,  and  mounted  the  box. 
he  crack  of  his  whip,  like  the  breaking  of  day, 
/arm'd  the  wax  in  the  ears  of  the  leaders,  and  they 
/ith  a  snort,  like  the  fog  of  the  morning,  clear'd  out 
or  the   west,   as   young   Phaey  meant  to  get  there 

about 
wo  hours  before  sunset.  * 

.  He  look'd  at  his  "turnip,'* 
od  to  make  the  delay  ol  the  old  line  concern  up, 
e  gave  'em  the  reins;  and  from  Aries  to  Cancer, 
he  style  of  his  drive  on  the  road  seem'd  to  answer ; 
lit  at  Leo,  the  ears  of  the  near  wheel-horse  prick'd, 
ad  at  Vh'go  the  heels  of  the  off  leader  kick'd 


I 


160 

Over  Libra  the  whiffle-tree  broke  in  the  middle, 

And  the  traces   snapp'd   short,   hke   the    strings   of  a 

fiddle. 
One  wheel  struck  near  Scorpio,  who  gave  it  a  roll, 
And  sent  it  to  buzz,  like  a  top,  round  the  pole; 
While   the  other  whizz'd  back  with  its  linchpin  anc 

hub, 
Or,  more  learnedly  speaking,  its  nucleus  or  nub ; 
And,  whether  in  earnest,  or  whether  in  fun, 
He  carried  away  a  few  locks  of  the  sun. 

The  state  of  poor  Phaeton's  coach  was  a  blue  one, 
And  Jupiter  order'd  A^oollo  a  new  one  ; 
But  our  driver  felt  rather  too  proud  to  say  "Whoa," 
Letting  horses,  and  harness,  and  every  thing  go 
At  their  terrified  pleasure  abroad ;  and  the  muse 
Says,  they  cut  to  this  day  just  what  capers  they  choosef 
That  the  eyes  of  the  chargers  as  meteors  shine  forth; 
That  their  manes    stream  along  in  the   lights  of  tfaf 

north ; 
That  the  wheels  which  are  missing  are  comets,  that 
As  fast  as  they  did  when  they  carried  the  sun  ; 
And  still  pushing  forward,  though  never  arriving. 
Think  the  west  is  before  them,  and  Phaeton  driving. 

f 


THE  GRAVE  YARD. 

*Tis  morning  on  the  sunny  sod, 
Where  lingering  footsteps  late  have  trod  ; 
'Tis  morning  on  the  melting  snow, 
That  shrouds  the  grave  of  these  below  ; 
'Tis  morning  to  each  sprouting  thing. 
That  greenly  smiles  because  'tis  spring ; 
'Tjs  morning  on  the  marble  stones, 
That  designate  their  owners'  bones  ; 
'Tis  morning  to  the  young  and  fair, 
That  walk,  and  laugh,  and  loiter  there. 
Above  let  spring  in  brightness  glow, 
A  brighter  morning  smiles  below. 

There  is  a  beam  that  breaks  upon 
The  lone  forsaken  buried  one ; 
And  clearer  than  that  dawning  ray. 
Which  gives  the  first  sweet  light  of  day, 
Sheds  on  the  Christian's  soul  a  light 
To  which  the  noon-day  sun  is  night ; 
And  shews  the  path  his  Saviour  trod, 
When,  rising,  he  returned  to  God. 
14* 


A  RAINY  DAY. 

It  rains.     What  lady  loves  a  rainy  day  ? 
Not  she  who  puts  prunella  on  her  foot, 
Zephyrs  around  her  neck  and  silken  socks 
Upon  a  graceful  ancle — nor  yet  she 
Who  sports  her  tassel'd  parasol  along 
The  walks,  beau-crowded  on  some  sunny  noon, 
Or  trips  in  muslin,  in  a  winters  night 
On  a  cold  sleigh  ride — to  a  distant  hall. 
Slie  loves  a  rainy  day  who  sweeps  the  hearth. 
And  threads  the  buisy  needle,  or  applies 
The  scissors  to  the  torn  or  thread-bare  sleeve ; 
Who  blesses  God  that  she  has  friends  and  home  ; 
Who  in  the  pelting  of  the  storm,  will  think 
Of  some  poor  neighbour  that  she  can  befriend  ;    ♦ 
Who  trims  the  lamp  at  night  and  reads  aloud 
To  a  young  brother,  tales  he  loves  to  hear, 
Or  ventures  cheerfully  abroad,  to  watch 
The  bedside  of  some  sick  and  suffering  friend, 
Administering  that  best  of  medicine. 
Kindness  and  tender  care  and  cheering  hope, 
— Such  are  not  sad,  e'en  on  a  rainy  day. 


YON  CLOUD— (fee. 

Yon  cloud — 'tis  bright  and  beautiful — it  floats 

Alone  in  God's  horizon — on  its  edge 

The  stars  seem  hung  like  pearls — it  looks  as  pure 

As  'twere  an  angel's  shroud — the  white  cymar 

Of  Purity  just  peeping  through  its  folds, 

To  give  a  pitying  look  on  this  sad  world. 

Go  visit  it  and  find  that  all  is  false, 
Its  glories  are  but  fog — and  its  white  form 
Is  plighted  to  some  thundergust. — 
The  rain,  the  wind  the  lightning  have  their  source 
In  such  bright  meetings.     Gaze  not  on  the  clouds 
However  beautiful — Gaze  at  the  sky 
The  clear,  blue,  tranquil  fix'd  and  glorious  sky. 


THE  SEA  BIRD'S  SONG. 

On  the  deep  is  the  mariner's  danger, 
On  the  deep  is  the  mariner's  death, 

Who  to  fear  of  the  tempest  a  stranger 
Sees  the  last  bubble  burst  of  his  breath  ? 

'Tis  the  sea-bird,  sea-bird,  sea-bird. 

Lone  looker  on  despair. 
The  sea-bird,  sea-bird,  sea-bird, 

The  only  witness  there. 

Who  watclTes  their  course,  who  so  mildly 
Careen  to  the  kiss  of  the  breeze  ? 

Who  lists  to  their  shrieks,  who  so  wildly 
Are  clasp'd  in  the  arms  of  the  seas  ? 

'Tis  the  sea-bird,  &c. 

Who  hovers  on  high  o'er  the  lover. 

And  her  who  has  clung  to  his  neck  ? 
Whose  wing  is  the  wing  that  can  cover, 


165 
With  its  shaddow,  the  foundering  wreck  ? 
'Tis  the  sea-bird,  &c. 

My  eye  in  the  hght  of  the  billow, 
My  wing  on  the  wake  of  the  wave  ; 

I  shall  take  to  my  breast  for  a  pillow. 
The  shrowd  of  the  fair  and  the  brave. 

I'm  a  sea-bird,  «Stc. 

Mv  foot  on  the  iceberg  has  liolitcd. 

When  hoarse  the  wild  winds  veer  about ; 

My  eye,  when  the  bark  is  benighted, 

Sees  the  lamp  of  the  Light-House  go  out. 

I'm  the  sea-bird,  sea-bird,  sea-bird, 

Lone  looker  on  despair ; 
The  sea-bird,  sea-bird,  sea-bird, 

The  only  witness  there. 


SONNET.    TO- 


-She  was  a  lovely  one — her  shape  was  light 
And  delicately  flexible — her  eye 


166 

Might  have  been  black,  or  blue, — ^but  it  was  bright, 

Though  beaming  not  on  every  passer-by, 

'Twas  very  modest  and  a  little  shy. 
The  eyelash  seemed  to  shade  the  very  cheek, 

That  had  the  colour  of  a  sunset  sky, 
Not  rosy — but  a  soft  and  heav'niy  streak 
For  which  the    arm    might  strike — the  heart  might 
break — 

And  a  soft  gentle  voice,  that  kindly  sweet 
Accosted  one  she  chanced  to  overtake, 

While  walking  slowly  on  Iambic  feet. 
In  tones  that  fell  as  soft  as  heav'n's  own  dew 
Who  was  it  ?  dear  young  Lady,  was  it  you  ? 


GOOD  NIGHT. 


Good  night  to  all — both  friend  and  foe,- 
My  sun  once  high  and  warm  is  low ; 
Its  morning  and  its  noontide  past. 
Near  setting,  now,  it  beams  its  last, 
And  soon  will  sink  in  Death's  dark  skies. 
Never  on  earth  again  to  rise. 

Ye  social  few  who've  shar'd  my  heart, 
In  sooth  'tis  hard  with  you  to  part — 


167 

Many  and  sweet  the  hours  which  we 
Have  spent  in  heartfek  mirth  and  glee, — 
But  now  from  you  I  wend  my  way, 
To  dwell  where  Friendship  sheds  no  ray. 

Earth  and  thy  pleasures  all  good  night, — 
Ye'll  never  more  enchant  my  sight ; 
I  go  where  Life's  gay  scenes  are  not, 
Where  all  is  silence — all  forgot — 
Farewell  to  life,  farewell  to  light. 
Friends  foes  and  all,  a  long  good  night. 


THE  NOSEGAY. 


I'll  pull  a  bunch  of  l»uds  and  flowers. 
And  tie  a  ribbon  round  them, 

If  you'll  but  think,  in  your  lonely  hours, 
Of  the  sweet  little  girl  that  bound  them. 

ril  cull  the  earliest  that  put  forth, 
And  those  that  last  tlie  longest ; 

And  the  bud,  that  boasts  the  fairest  birth, 
Shall  cling  to  the  stem  that's  strongest. 

I've  run  about  the  garden  walks, 
And  search'd  among  the  dew,  sir ; — 


168 

These  fragrant  flowers,  these  tender  stalks, 
I've  pluck'd'them  all  for  you,  sir. 

So  here's  your  bunch  of  buds  and  flowers, 
And  here's  your  ribbon  round  them ; 

And  here,  to  cheer  your  sadden'd  hours, 
Is  the  sweet  little  girl  that  bound  them. 


There  were  but  sixty-nine  new  entries  on  the  docket  of  the 
Hartford  County  Court  at  its  late  session.  One  of  the  most  im- 
portant causes  is  reported  below. 

SCIRE  FACIAS.* 

THE  BAR  versus  THE  DOCKET. 

This  action  was  brought  to  get  cash  from  the  pocket 
Of  a  debtor  absconding  and  absent,  call'd  Docket — 
For  damage  sustain'd  by  the  Bar  through  the  Jaclies-\ 
Of  him  by  whose  means  the  said  Bar  cut  their  dashes. 

They  copied  the  constable,  thinking  that  he 

Might  have  goods  in  his  hands,  and  be  made  Garnishee ;% 

*  Make  him  to  know. 

t  Neglect. 

X  One  who,  being  supposed  to  liave  in  his  hands  the  property 
of  an  absconded  debtor,  is  cited  to  show  whether  he  has  or  not. 


169 

Who,  being  thus  summon'd  to  show  cause,  appear'd 
To  state  to  the  court  why  he  should  not  be  shear'd.* 
Whereas,  said  the  Plaintiffs,  you  owe  us  our  living 
By  assumpsit  implied,  and  the  costs  you  must  give  in — • 
You  have  cheated  us  out  of  our  bread  and  butter, 
Et  alia  enormia,^  too  numerous  to  utter. 

Thus  solemnly  spoke  the  Bar's  counsel,  and  sigh'd — 
The  Garnishee  plainly  emd  frankly  replied, 
That  he  had  no  effects,  and  could  not  get  enough 
To  pay  his  own  debt  which  he  thought  rather  tough. 

Then  came  pleas  and  rejoinders,  rebutters,  demurrers, 
Such   as  Chitty  would  plough  into  Richard  Roe's  fur- 
rows ; — 
Cross  questions,  and  very  cross  answers,  to  suit — 
So  the  gist  of  the  case  was  the  point  in  dispute.  J 

The  judges  look'd  grave,  as  indeed  well  they  might, 
For  one  party  was  wrong,  and  the  other  not  right ; 
'  The  sweeper  himself  thought  it  cruel  to  sue 
A  man,  just  because  he  had  nothing  to  do. 

*  Not  a  law  term,  but  rather  a  termination  in  law. 

t  And  other  enormities. 

X  This  is  usually  the  fact  before  the  County  Court,  and  indeed 
before  all  other  Courts. 

15 


.•#■ 


170 

The  Docket  non  ested,*  the  Garnishee  prov'd, 
That  the  chattels  were  gone  and  the  assets  remov'd — 
That  they  had  not  been  heard  of  for  full  half  a  year, 
So  he  took  to  the  Statute,  and  swore  himself  clear. 

The  case  being  simple  in  English,  the  Bench 
Resorted,  of  course,  to  their  old  Norman  French ; 
But  the  Bar  being  frighten'd,  thought  best  to  defer  it, 
And  pray  out  the  writ  latitat  et  discurrit.-\ 

Then  a  motion  was  made  by  the  learned  debaters, 
That  the  sheriff  should  call  out  the  whole  comitatus — J 
Read  the  act — tell  the  posse,  instanter  to  hook  it. 
And  send  the  whole  hue  and  cry  after  the  Docket. 

•  Not  to  be  found. 

t  Lurks  and  wanders. 

X  Posse  comitatus — ^power  of  the  County. 


#.** 


THE  ALLIGATOR. 

The  U.  S.  schooner  Alligator  was  wrecked  on  her  return  from 
the  West  India  station,  after  the  murder,  by  the  pirates,  of  her 
commander,  Capt.  Allyn. 

♦ 
That  steed  has  lost  his  rider  !    I  have  seen 
His  snuffing  nostril,  and  his  pawing  hoof; 
His  eyeball  lighting  to  the  cannon's  blaze, 
His  sharp  ear  pointed,  and  each  ready  nerve, 
Obedient  to  a  whisper.     His  white  mane 
Curling  with  eagerness,  as  if  it  bore, 
To  squadron'd  foes,  the  sign  of  victory, 
Where'er  his  bounding  speed  could  carry  it. 
But  now,  with  languid  step,  he  creeps  along, 
Falters,  and  groans,  and  dies. 

And  I  have  seen 
Yon  foundering  vessel,  when  with  crowded  sail, 
[     With  smoking  bulwarks,  and  with  blazing  sides. 
Sporting  away  the  foam  before  her  prow, 
And  heaving  down  her  side  to  the  brave  chase, 
She  seemed  to  share  the  glories  of  the  bold ! 


M 


172 


But  now,  with  flagging  canvass,  lazily 

She  moves;  and  stumbling  on  the  rock,  she  sinks. 

As  broken  hearted  as  that  faithful  steed, 

That  lost  his  rider,  and  laid  down  and  died. 


THE  SWEET  BRIER. 

Our  sweet  autumnal  western-scented  wind 
Robs  of  its  odours  none  so  sweet  a  flower, 

In  all  the  blooming  waste  it  left  behind, 

As  that  the  sweet  brier  yields  it;  and  the  shower 
Wets  not  a  rose  that  buds  in  beauty's  bov^'er 

One  half  so  lovely, — ^yet  it  grows  along 

The  poor  girl's   path  way — by   the    poor   man'* 

door. 
Such  are  the  simple  folks  it  dwells  among : 

And  humble  as  the  bud,  so  humble  be  the  song. 

I  love  it,  for  it  takes  its  untouch'd  stand 
Not  in  the  vase  that  sculptors  decorate — 

Its  sweetness  all  is  of  my  native  land, 

And  e'en  its  fragrant  leaf  has  not  its  mate 
Among  the  perfumes  which  the  rich  and  great 

Buy  from  the  odours  of  the  spicy  east. 


#^ 


173 

You  love  your  flowers  and  plants,  and  will  you 

hate 
The  little  four  leav'd  rose  that  I  love  best, 
That   freshest    will   awake,  and   sweetest    go  to 

rest? 


TO  A  LADY  WHO  HAD  LOST  A  RELATION. 

No  more  to  grace  the  happy  hearth, 
To  grace  the  cheerful  board,  no  more, 

To  light  with  smiles  the  misty  path 
That  leads  to  the  eternal  shore, 
Arrived — embarked,  and  all  is  o'er. 

The  sunny  curl,  the  bright  blue  eye. 
The  form,  the  soul  are  gone  before, 

And  we  must  follow  on,  and  die. 

And  she,  the  aged  one,  bereaved. 

Sits  lonely  in  a  daughter's  chair 
Submissive  to  God's  will,  yet  griev'd. 

Raising  to  Heaven  the  silent  prayer, 
.  Her  faith  and  love  and  hopes  are  there, 
But  where  are  yours  ?  and  where  are  mine  ? 

The  prospect,  is  it  bright  or  drear? 

The  comfort,  human  or  divine  ? 
16* 


TO  THE  DAUGHTER  OF  A  FRIEND. 

I  pray  thee  by  thy  mother's  face, 

And  by  her  look  and  by  her  eye, 
By  every  decent  matron  grace 
That  hovered  round  the  resting  place 

Where  thy  young  head  did  lie  ; 
And  by  the  voice  that  sooth'd  thine  ear. 
The  hymn,  the  smile,  the  sigh,  the  tear, 

That  match'd  thy  changeful  mood  ; 
By  every  prayer  thy  mother  taught — 
By  every  blessing  that  she  sought, 

I  pray  thee  to  be  good. 

Is  not  the  nestling,  when  it  wakes 

Its  eye  upon  the  wood  around. 
And  on  its  new  fledged  pinions  takes 
Its  taste  of  leaves  and  boughs  and  brakes, — 

Of  motion,  sight  and  sound, 
Is  it  not  like  the  parent?     Then 
Be  like  thy  mother,  child,  and  when 

Thy  wing  is  bold  and  strong ; 
Afl  pure  and  steady  be  thy  light — 
As  high  and  heavenly  be  thy  flight — 

As  holy  be  thy  song. 


HOW  TO  CATCH  A  BLACK  FISH. 

Thompson,  the  poet  of  the  year,  has  sung 
And  melodized  the  cautious  sylvan  art 
To  lure  the  trout  from  underneath  the  root 
Of  some  old  oak,  or  tempt  him  from  his  rock 
Deep-shelving  far  beneath  the  grassy  bank. 
Where  all  is  always  shadow — to  the  stream 
That  sparkles  in  the  sun  beam.     Thence  the  hook 
Drags  him  in  speckled  beauty  to  the  shore. 

The  bard  of  Scotland  and  of  nature  sung 
For  this,  thy  praise,  sweet  Thompson — yea,  and  he 
Of  loftier  thought  and  bolder  hand  declared 
To  nymphs  and  swains  where  their  own  druid  slept. 
But  who  shall  sing  his  praise  who  tells  the  world 
The  way  to  catch  a  black  fish.     Praise,  'tis  said 
Is  not  a  plant  of  mortal  soil — 'tis  naught — 
And  naughty  is  the  wish  to  cull  its  weeds. 

Begin  then,  muse,  and  help  me  to  the  bait, 
That,  when  the  sea  retires,  will  shelter  close 
Beneath  the  sea  weed  side  of  rocks  and  stones, 


176 

And  guage,  sweet  maid  of  Hellas — guage  my  hook 

So  that,  nor  steady  pull  may  draw  it  off, 

Nor  cumbrous  thread  betray  its  fell  design — 

Sit  on  the  bow,  fair  sister  to  the  eight 

Who  on  Parnassus  miss  thy  absence  strange, 

And  let  me  scull  to  where  the  young  flood  lifts 

The  rock  weed,  as  the  morning  breeze  wakes  up 

The  daisy  that  the  lark  has  slept  beside ; 

So  wakes  the  black  fish,  and  with  lazy  fin 

Paddles  his  round  white  nose  in  curious  search 

For  meat  untoil'd  for,  yet  expected  much. 

Beware.     Thy  guardian  genius  with  her  wings 

Ofsilkiness — her  breath  of  sea  shell  air — 

Her  voice  the  whispering  of  the  smallest  bubble 

That  rises  from  the  oozy  depths  around, 

All  give  thee  warning,  Touch  not ! — 'Tis  in  vain, 

The  subtle  bait  is  sought  for  greedily 

And  swallo'V3  J  without  tasting — next  he  lies 

Panting  and  bleeding  by  the  fisher's  side. 

And  does  ho  pause  to  moralize — No,  no, 

He  baits  the  hook  to  tempt  another  on, 

And  feasts  upon  their  folly. 


THE  GNOME  AND  THE  PADDOCK. 

WHAT    THE     GN03IE    SAID    TO     THE    PADDOCK*  IN    A 
BLASTED  ROCK. 

I  am  a  Gnome,  and  this  old  Granite  ledge 

My  home  and  habitation  since  the  days 

When  the  big  floods  brake  up,  and  massy  rain 

Fell,  deluge  upon  deluge,  to  the  earth, — 

When  lightning,  hot  and  hissing,  crinkl'd  by 

Each  scath'd  and  thunder-blasted  twig  that  shew'd 

Its  leaf  above  the  waters.     Years  had  pass'd 

And  centuries  too,  when  by  this  shelter'd  side 

The  Indian  built  his  fire  and  ate  his  samp 

And  laid  him  down — how  quietly — ^beneath 

The  shadow  of  this  rock.     'Twas  great  to  him 

And  in  aweary  land.     For^'onder  where 

The  school  boy  flies  his  kite,  and  little  girls 

Seek  four  lew'd  clover — there  the  Buffaloe 

Led  his  wild^herd.     There  once  and  only  once 

The  Mammoth  stalk'd.     Thou  Paddock  heard'st  his 

tread, 
But  I, — I  saw  him.     By  this  very  rock — 
*  A  Paddock  is  a  toad  that  lives  in  a  rock. 


178 

This  little  ledge  he  pass'd.     Three  stately  steps  ! 
And  every  rough  and  wooded  promontory 
Trembled. 

And  for  his  voice — 'twas  musical 
And  though  too  sonorous  for  human  ear 
Yet  to  a  Gnome  'twas  wonderous — exquisite, 
For  every  vein  of  undiscover'd  ore 
Rang  in  full  harmony  to  that  bold  tone. 
From  the  wild  surface  to  the  lowest  depth 
And  through  and  round  the  pillar  of  the  earth 
Were  silver  streaks  and  golden  radiants 
That  trembled  through  their  courses,  when  a  note 
Congenial  waked  their  low,  sweet,  solemn  sound. 

But  hush  thee  Paddock  !    Goodby  once  for  all — 
There  comes  old  Burdick  with  an  iron  rod 
And  near  him,  one  who  with  a  powder  flask 
Will  blow  us  both  sky-high.     Adieu  sweet  vestal, 
And  when  I  meet  you  in  a  museum 
Do  not  forget  me  dearest ! 


SONG. 

The  rocks,  the  rocks,  among  the  rocks 

My  only  lover  lies, 
To  me  the  plain,  to  me  the  main, 

Nor  fear  nor  pleasure  gives. 

I  love  not  in  the  sunny  day 
To  weed  and  till  the  ground, 

While  my  wild  lover  far  away, 
Hunts  with  liis  lazy  hound. 

Nor  would  I  be  a  sailor's  wife. 

Too  far  from  me  is  he, 
For  I  must  toil  and  I  must  strive, 

While  he  is  on  the  sea. 

Give  me  a  lover  to  my  cheek, 

A  husband  to  my  arms, 
Nor  would  I  other  dowry  seek, 

Than  hills  and  rocky  farms. 


180 

The  meadow's  calms,  the  ocean's  shocks, 

Each  ruins  or  deceives; 
The  rocks,  the  rocks,  among  the  rocks, 

My  only  lover  lies. 


STANZAS. 


How  well  I  remember  the  paths  that  I  trode 
When  a  boy,  with  my  bait  and  my  light  little  rod, 
How  eager  I  went,  and  how  patient  I  stood. 

And  felt  not  a  bite  through  the  whole  afternoon. 
Wet,  hungry  and  tired,  how,  at  sundown,  I  came. 
The  leaf  was  as  green  and  the  verdure  the  same. 
But  returning  I  found  it  so  cold  and  so  tame, 

'Twas  December  to  me,  to  the  wood  it  was  June. 

I  had  dwelt  where  the  lovely,  the  young  and  the  gay 
Shed  light  on  my  path — but  I  went  on  my  way. 
My  errand  was  fruitless,  and  tedious  my  stay. 

And  sadden'd  I  turn'd  to  the  home  of  my  youth  ; 
Where  now  is  the  music,  the  life  and  the  glee — 
There  are  smiles,  there  are  dimples, — they  are  not 
for  me, 


181 


And  my  faint,  sickening  spirit  too  plainly  can  see, 
How  warm  was  my  fancy,  how  cold  is  the  truth. 


"  IS    IT    FANCY,    OR    IS    IT    FACT." 

No  more  will  t  love  for  my  mother  is  fled, 
My  Brother  is  gone  to  the  seas  for  his  bread, 
And  O,  my  poor  Father  by  whom  I  am  fed 

How  cold  is  his  hand  when  I  take  it. 
He  has  cares,  he  has  sorrows,  and  wild  is  his  smile 
When  I  strive  all  his  harrowing  thoughts  to  beguile, 
I  gaze  on  his  anguish  and  fancy  the  while 

That  his  heart  wants  but  little  to  break  it. 

No  more  will  I  love — for  my  lover  is  gone, 
At  noon-day  the  grasshopper  sits  by  the  stone, 
And  at  twilight  the  whippowil  utters  his  moan 

When  deep  in  the  wood  he  is  buried. 
'Twas  there  that  he  wished  to  be  laid,  for  'twas  there 
That  truth  told  its  tale  and  that  love  breath'd  its  prayer, 
And  the  heart  taught  the  tongue  a  sad  promise  to  swear 

That  he  and  his  love  should  be  married. 

He's  wedded  to  dust,  and  I'm  wedded  to  woe, 
My  Father's  distracted  and  where  shall  I  go — 

16 


182 

Should  I  follow  my  mother — O  misery — no, 

I  am  not,  I  am  not  her  daughter. 
One  hope  I  can  cherish — one  form  I  can  seek, 
On  one  breast  I  can  sigh,  to  one  heart  I  can  speak. 
And  the  tear  I  next  shed  shall  fall  full  on  his  cheek— 

The  brother  that  ventur'd  the  water. 


TO    A    FRIEND    IN    THE    NAVY,    NOW    SICK    AT    HOME. 

The  wave,  the  wave,  the  Yankee  wave 

That  dances  white  and  blue, 
That  roars  in  might,  or  laughs  outright, 

Or  smiles  and  whispers  too. 
It  is  the  same,  whence  e'er  it  came 

And  wheresoe'er  it  go — 
In  piping  gale  or  plaintive  wail, 

In  triumph  or  in  woe. 

You've  seen  it  on  mid-ocean's  surge 

When  war  call'd  up  its  wrath. 
Yelling  the  fated  foeman's  dirge 

And  howling  round  his  path, — 


183 

0 


You've  seen  it  on  the  playful  shore, 

Its  cheek  upon  the  sand, 
When  winds  were  still  and  storms  were  o'er, 

Kissing  the  quiet  land. 

By  every  promontory's  sweep, 

By  every  little  bay, 
By  every  shore  and  every  steep 

Where  the  smooth  eddies  play — 
Where  e'er  the  silver  minim's  fin 

Scoops  out  his  tiny  cave. 
To  paddle  or  to  ponder  in, 

You've  seen  the  Yankee  wave. 

How  gaily  did  it  once  bear  up 

Your  little  shingle  boat. 
And,  when  a  bigger  boy,  on  it 

Your  skiff  you  first  did  float. 
And  since,  upon  the  broadest  deck 

That  ever  swam  the  seas, 
You've  rais'd  a  penon,  proudest  yet 

That  ever  flapp'd  the  breeze. 

Soon  may  you  leave  your  fever'd  bed 

As  one  who  quits  a  wreck 
And  show  once  more  a  *****'s  head 

Upon  a  quarter  deck — 


184 

Yes  !  leave  your  home,  for  ocean's  foam, 
And  join  your  comrades  brave, 

For  well  I  know,  of  all  below, 
You  love  the  Yankee  wave. 


THE  DROWNED  BOY. 

Sad  was  the  lot,  sad  was  the  tale 

Of  him  who  lies  unconscious  here. 
His  locks  are  Hfted  by  the  gale. 
No  mourner  comes  his  loss  to  wail, 
No  friend  to  wait  upon  his  bier. 

I've  seen  him  in  some  lonely  hour 

Gazing  upon  the  bright  blue  sky, 
And  though  the  blackning  cloud  might  lour. 
Careless  he'd  view  the  coming  shower, 
Nor  heed  the  storm  that  mutter'd  by. 

Sad  did  he  seem  for  one  so  young, 
'Twas  in  a  bitter  mood  he  smil'd, 
And  as  he  paced  the  path  along. 
He  had  a  strange  and  wayward  song, 
And  gestur'd  to  his  measure  wild. 


185 

Whether  'twas  want  or  cruelty 

That  caus'd  his  mind  thus  wild  to  rove, 
Or  whether  to  his  boyish  eye, 
His  fancy  gave  the  mad'ning  joy, 

Of  ceaseless,  hopeless,  idle  love. 

I  know  not,  but  he  has  never  slept, 

Upon  a  quiet  peaceful  bed  ; 
He  to  himself  his  vigils  kept, 
None  but  himself  for  him  has  wept, 

None  mourn  him  now  that  he  is  dead. 


■%■* 


THE  TREE  TOAD. 

I  am  a  jolly  tree  toad,  upon  a  chesnut  tree ; 

I  chirp,  because!  know  that  the  night  was  made  for  me ; 

The  young  bat  flies  above  me,  the  glow-worm  shines 

below, 
And  the  owlet  sits  to  hear  me,  and  hstlf  forgets  his  wo. 

I'm  lighted  by  the  fire-fly,  in  circles  wheeling  round  ; 
The  caty-did  is  silent,  and  listens  to  the  sound  ; 
The  jack-o'-lantern  leads  the  wayworn  traveller  astray, 
To  hear  the  tree  toad's  melody  until  the  break  of  day. 

15* 


186 

The  harvest  moon  hangs  over  me,  and  smiles  upon  the 

streams ; 
The  hghts  dance  upward  from  the  north,  and  cheer  me 

with  their  beams ; 
The  dew  of  heaven,  it  comes  to  me  as  sweet  as  beauty's 

tear ; 
The  stars  themselves  shoot  down  to  see  what  music  we 

have  here. 

The  winds  around  me  whisper  to    ev'ry  flower  that 

blows. 
To  droop  their  heads,  call  in  their  sweets,  and  every 

leaf  to  close  ; 
The  whippowil   sings  to  his  mate  the  mellow  melody : 
*'  Oh  !  hark,  and  hear  the  notes  that  flow  from  yonder 

chesnut  tree." 

Ye  caty-dids  and  whippowils,  come  listen  to  me  now  ; 

I  am  a  jolly  tree  toad  upon  a  chesnut  bough ; 

I  chirp  because  I  know  that  the  night  was  made  for 

me — 
And  I  close  my  proposition  with  a  Q.  E.  D. 


CHARITY. 

Sweet  charity  !  thou  of  the  kindest  voice, 
Of  lightest  hand,  of  softest — meekest  eye, 
And  gentlest  footstep,  making  but  the  noise 
Of  a  good  angel's  pinions  floating  by, 
Go  forth  !   but  not  to  dwellings  where  the  sigh 
Of  poverty  and  wretchedness  is  heard, 
Not  to  the  hovel,  nor  the  human  sty, 
Where  conscience,  oh  !   how  burningly  is  sear'd, 
Where  Heav'n  is  scarcely  known,  and  Hell  but  little 
fear'd. 

Sweet  spirit.  Go  not  there.     There  thou  hast  been, 
And  seen,  nor  pity,  nor  relief  bestow'd 
By  woman's  eye,  nor  by  the  hand  of  men. 
On  them  who  bear  such  miserable  load ; 
What  votary  hast  Thou,  at  their  abode  ? 
What  kind  heart  brings  its  tearful  off''ring  there, 
And  griev'd  that  'tis  no  more,  lifts  up  to  God 
Its  humble,  earnest,  holy,  secret  prayer, 
■Breath'd  mid  the  low  and  vile,  in  winter's  midnight  air  ? 


188 

Go  to  the  rich,  the  gay  and  the  secure, 
Bold  be  thy  step,  and  heavy  be  thy  hand, 
Knock  loud,  and  long,  at  Fashion's  partial  door 
And  swell  thy  voice  to  terror's  bold  command ; 
And  he,  who  builds  upon  extortion's  sand. 
He,  of  the  purple  and  the  linen  fine. 
Owner  of  widow's  stock  and  orphan's  land. 
Shall  shuddering  turn  from  his  untasted  wine. 
And  feel,  that  to  do  well,  his  all  he  should  resign. 

Go  to  the  lovely,  not  in  sighing  smiles. 

At  which  the  thoughtless  fool  might  smiling  sigh, 

— Scatter  her  -freaks,  her  follies  and  her  wiles, 

With  the  stern  beauty  of  religion's  eye  ; 

Teach  her  the  tear  of  grief — of  shame  to  dry. 

To  drop  on  frailty,  meek  compassion's  balm. 

To  do  aright — to  feel  aright — to  try 

Her  envious,  hateful  passions  first  to  calm  ; 

Then  shed  upon  her  soul,  not  on  her  face,  thy  charm. 

Go  to  yon  Pharisee — the  heartless  wretch, 
That  prates  of  holiness,  and  hunts  for  sin, 
For  faults  of  others  ever  on  the  stretch, 
All  gaze  without,  and  not  one  glance  within  ; 
And  worse,  much  worse,  not  one  kind  wish  to  win 
A  sinner  back — but  to  detect,  betray, 


189 

And  punish.     Go  and  tell  him  to  begin 

Anew — and  point  him  to  salvation's  way, 

The  sermon  on  the  mount  to  us  poor  sons  of  clay. 

Touch  not  their   gold,  but   touch — Thou  canst — their 

heart, 
For  there  be  many  who,  with  open  purse 
Will  greet  thee  in  that  market  place,  their  mart 
Of  cold  hj^ocrisy,  or  something  worse  : 
Unkind  and  selfish — theirs  may  be  the  curse 
"  Thy  money  perish  with  thee."     Learn  thou  them 
Sweet  Charity  !  their  kindness  to  disburse — 
And  Self's  deep  deadly  current  strong  to  stem  ; 
A  sigh  shall  win  a  pearl — a  tear  a  diadem. 

How  blessed  are  thy  feet.     Thy  footsteps  stray 

From  open  paths,  and  seek  a  grassgrown  track 

Through  shades  impervious  to  the  gaze  of  day  ; 

Onward  flies  light,  a  form  that  turns  not  back 

At  sight  of  chasm,  or  torrent  never  slack ; 

Quiet  and  bold,  and  sure  the  errand  speeds, 

Nor  doth  the  kindly  deed  a  blessing  lack — 

To  sorrow,  joy — to  anguish,  peace  succeeds. 

The  eye  no  longer  weeps,  the  heart  no  longer  bleeds. 


INTRODUCTION 

TO 

A  LADY'S  ALBUM. 

The  wanton  boy  that  sports  in  May, 
Among  the  wild  flowers,  blooming,  gay, 
With  laughing  eyes  and  glowjng  cheeks, 
The  brightest,  freshest,  fairest  seeks, 
And  there,  delightedly,  he  lingers, 
To  pluck  them  with  his  rosy  fingers. 
While,  like  the  bee,  he  roves  among 
Their  sweets,  and  hums  his  little  song. 

He  weaves  a  garland  rich  and  rare. 
And  decorates  his  yellow  hair : 
The  rose,  and  pink,  and  violet, 
And  honeysuckle,  there  are  set ; 
The  darkest  cypress  in  the  glade 
Lends  to  the  wreath  its  solemn  shade, 
And  sadly  smiles,  when  lighted  up 
With  daisy,  and  with  butter-cup. 


191 

Thus  fair  and  bright  each  flow'r  should  be, 
Cull'd  from  the  field  of  Poesy ; 
But  with  the  lightsome  and  the  gay, 
Be  mix'd  the  moralizing  lay 
Of  those,  who,  hke  the  cypress  bough, 
A  thoughtful  shade  of  sorrow  throw 
On  transient  buds,  or  flowers  light, 
That  smile  at  morn,  and  fade  at  night. 


TO  A  STRING 


TIED    ROUND    A    FINGER. 


Et  haec  olim  meminisse  juvabit. 

The  bell  that  strikes  the  warning  hour. 
Reminds  me  that  I  should  not  Unger, 

And  winds  around  my  heart  its  power, 
Tight  as  the  string  around  my  finger. 

A  sweet  good-night  I  give,  and  then 

Far  from  my  thoughts  I  need  must  fling  her, 

Who  bless'd  that  lovely  evening,  when 
She  tied  the  string  around  my  finger. 


192 

Lovely  and  virtuous,  kind  and  fair, 

A  sweet-toned  belle,  Oh  !  who  shall  ring  her  ! 
Of  her  let  bellmen  all  beware, 

Who  tie  such  strings  around  their  finger. 

What  shall  I  do  ? — I'll  sit  me  down, 
And,  in  my  leisure  hours,  I'll  sing  her 

Who  gave  me  neither  smile  nor  frown, 
But  tied  a  thread  around  my  finger. 

Now  may  the  quiet  star-lit  hours 

Their  gentlest  dews  and  perfumes  bring  her ; 
And  morning  show  its  sweetest  flowers 

To  her  whose  string  is  round  my  finger. 

And  never  more  may  I  forget 

The  spot  where  I  so  long  did  linger ; — 

But  watch  another  chance,  and  get 
Another  string  around  my  finger. 


PRESIDENTIAL  COTILLION. 


Carmina  turn  melius,  cum  venerit  IPSE  canemus. 

ViRG.  Bucolica,  Eel.  ix. 


Castle  Garden  was  splendid  one  night — though  tb« 

wet 
Put  off  for  some  evenings  the  ball  for  Fayette. 
The  arrangements  were  rich,  the  occasion  was  pat, 
And  the  whole  was  in  style  ; — but  I  sing  not  of  that. 

Ye  Graces,  attend  to  a  poet's  condition, 
■  And  bring  your  right  heels  to  the  second  position ; 
I  sing  of  a  dance  such  as  never  was  seen 
On  fairy-tripped  meadow,  or  muse-haunted  green. 

The  length  of  the  room,  and  the  height  of  the  hall. 
The  price  of  the  tickets,  the  cost  of  the  ball, 
And  the  sums  due  for  dresses,  I'm  glad  to  forget — 
I'd  rather  pay  off  the  whole  national  debt. 

17 


194 

The  fiddlers  were  Editors,  rang'd  on  the  spot, 

There  were  strings  that  were  rosin'd,  and  strings  that 

were  not ; 
Who  furnished  the  instruments  I  do  not  know, 
But  each  of  the  band  drew  a  very  long  how. 

They  screw'd  up  their  pegs,  and  they  shoulder'd  their 

fiddles ; 
They  finger'd  the  notes  of  their  hey-diddle-diddles ; 
Spectators  look'd  on — they  were  many  a  million, 
To  see  the  performers  in  this  great  cotillion. 

One  Adams  first  led  Miss  Diplomacy  out, 
And  Crawford  Miss  Money — an  heiress  no  doubt ; 
And  Jackson  Miss  Dangerous,  a  tragical  actor, 
And  Clay,  Madam  Tariff,  of  home  manufacture. 

There  was  room  for  a  set  just  below,  and  each  buck 
Had  a  belle  by  his  side,  like  a  drake  with  his  duck  ; 
But  the  first  set  attracted  the  whole  room's  attention. 
For  they  cut  the  capers  most  worthy  of  mention. 

They  bow'd  and  they  curtised,  round  went  all  eight, 
Right  foot  was  the  word,  and  clmsse  was  the  gait ; 
Then  they  balanc'd  to  partners,  and  turn'd  them  about, 
And  each  one  alternate  was  in  and  was  out 


195 

Some  kick'd  and  some  flounder'd,  some  set  and  some 

bounded, 
'Till  the  music  was  drown'd — the  figure  confounded  ; 
Some  danc'd  dos  a  dos,  and  some  danc'd  contraface, 
And  some  promenaded — and  all  lost  their  place. 

In  the  midst  of  this  great  pantomimic  balette, 
What  guest  should  arrive  but  the  great  La  Fayette  ! 
The  dancers  all  bow'd,  and  the  fiddlers  chang'd  tune, 
Like  Apollo's  beuijo  to  the  man  in  the  moon. 

How  sweet  were  the   notes,  and  how  bold  was  the 

strain  ! 
O,  when  shall  we  list  to  such  concord  again  f 
The  hall  was  sky-cover'd  with  Freedom's  bright  arch, 
And  it  rung  to  the  music  of  Liberty's  march. 


EXTRACTS 

VROBC   VEESES    WRITTEN    FOR    THE    NEW- YEAR,    182&. 

How  like  the  seasons  was  the  year 

Now  rough  and  rude — now  mild  and  clear. 

Like  March  and  June  together : 
Now  sweeping  on  with  fury's  blast — 
Now  stilly  breathing  on  the  past, 

And  calming  all  its  weather. 

When  streams  were  stiff  and  snow  was  deep- 
When  Statesmens'  promises  were  cheap, 

And  honesty  near  frozen ; 
When  votes  were  counted,  state  by  state. 
Mid  friends  and  foes — mid  joy  and  hate, 

A  President  was  chosen. 

Curst  was  the  siroc,  steaming  hot. 
When  patriot  against  patriot 

Was  set  in  mad  array ; 
And  doubly  curst  that  poison'd  trail, 
That  lingers,  when  the  sweeping  gale 

Has  moan'd  and  died  away. 


197 

Our  tree  was  fair  in  trunk  and  shoot, 
Its  verdcuit  boughs  bore  flower  and  fruit 

That  ripened  in  the  sun  ; 
Why  should  the  bramble  shoot  its  thorn, 
When  of  the  fruits  these  stems  had  borne 

The  hand  could  pluck  but  one. 

******* 

Fayette  !  the  skies  were  bright  to  thee, 
And  our  small  State  right  proud  may  be 

That  on  thy  stormy  track, 
Her  sons  were  guides  ;  for  she  may  boast, 
That  Allen  brought  thee  to  our  coast. 

And  Morris  bore  thee  back. 

How  did  the  blessed  rainbow  shed 
Its  gorgeous  colors  on  your  head 

When  first  you  saw  the  shore  : 
How  did  it  arch  above  your  sail, 
And  span  the  bay,  and  tinge  the  gale, 

And  dye  the  waters  o'er. 

The  Cadmus  saw  its  tinted  line ; 
It  smil'd  upon  the  Brandywine  ; 
And  how  it  shone  on  high, 
17* 


198 

He  who  can  paint  a  rainbow's  hues, 
And  dip  his  pencil  in  its  dews, 
May  better  tell  than  I. 

Warm  be  your  hearth,  and  full  your  store. 
And  open  as  your  hand,  your  door ; — 

And  gently  on  your  heart 
Fall  every  blessing  heaven  can  shed, 
Upon  the  virtuous  patriot's  head, 

'Till  soul  and  body  part. 


I  hear  a  sorrowing  western  breeze, 
Sigh  from  Champlain's  dark  ice-girt  seas. 

Yet  'tis  a  wind-harp  strain. — 
It  mourns  so  sweetly,  that  its  tone 
Has  consolation  in  its  moan. 

And  soothing  in  its  pain. 

Brave  Downie  !  thou  had'st  often  seen 
The  bold  in  combat,  and  had'st  been 

Where  decks  and  waves  were  gore  ; 
Thy  gallant  foe,  thy  noble  friend, 
Has  met  in  peace  a  christian's  end — 

Macdonough  is  no  more. 


199 

He  sleeps  in  quiet,  by  the  side 

Of  wife  and  children  dear : — nor  pride 

Nor  pomp  his  tomb  adorning, 
The  clods,  the  dust,  his  body  cover, 
But  round  him  shall  the  angels  hover, 

"  'Till  the  briffht  mornins." 


On  Groton  Heights,  the  lazy  cow 

Is  grazing  roimd  the  grass-grown  brow 

That  once,  in  days  gone  by, 
Was  rough  with  pike  and  bayonet, 
Stain'd  with  the  carnage  red  and  wet. 

Of  brave  men  met  to  die. 

They  died. — And  must  their  memories  die  ? 
O  !  ^he  weeper's  sob  and  the  mourners  sigh 

Are  quickly,  quickly  gone. 
To  the  devotion  of  that  band. 
That  cutlass  drew  and  rampart  manned, 
That  fought  their  foeman  hand  to  hand, 
That  saved  the  honour  of  your  land, 
And  died  where  their  intrenchments  stand. 

Ye  will  not  raise  a  stone. 

But  be  it  so.     Whate'er  the  cause, 
They  fought  not  thus  for  vain  applause — 


200 

*Twas  patriot  duty  prest  them  ; 
And  in  their  rough  and  gory  shroud, 
Without  the  purple  of  the  proud, 

God  in  his  mercy  rest  them. 

Yet  shall  those  graves,  unknown  so  long 
To  memory's  tear  and  glory's  song, 

Be  ever  blest. 
Green,  rank,  and  bright  the  turf  shall  grow 
Above  the  moulder'd  bones  below — 

"  Rest,  warriours,  rest." 


Now  sullenly  the  damp  winds  blow. 
And  muddily  the  waters  flow. 

And  fast  the  rain  drops  fall ; 
Such  is  the  time  to  hope  that  soon 
A  heaven  bright  sun,  a  cloudless  moon. 

Shall  shine  upon  us  all. 

The  time  is  up,  the  morrow's  dawn 
Breaks  on  a  purer,  holier  morn 

Than  Pagan  new-year's  day ; 
It  comes  not  out  in  mirth  and  song. 
It  calls  the  vain  world's  passing  throng. 

To  meet  and  praise,  and  pray. 


201 

How  should  this  hour  between  the  day 
When  God  to  Israel's  array 

Proclaim'd  the  holy  rest — 
And  that  which  saw  a  Saviour  rise, 
With  our  redemption  to  the  skies — 
How  should  such  hour  be  blest. 


JULY  4,  1826. 

QUI    TRANSTULIT    SrSTINET. 

The  warriour  may  twine  round  his  temples  the  leaves 

Of  the  Laurel  that  Victory  throws  him; 
The  Lover  may  smile  as  he  joyously  weaves 

The  Myrtle  that  beauty  bestows  him. 
The  Poet  may  gather  his  ivy,  and  gaze 

On  its  evergreen  honours  enchanted  ; 
But  what  are  their  ivys,  their  myrtles  and  bays. 

To  the  vine  that  our  forefathers  planted. 

Let  France  boast  the  lily — bt  Britain  be  vain 
Of  her  thistles,  and  shamrocks  and  roses ; 

Our  shrubs  and  our  blossoms  sprout  out  from  the  main. 
And  our  bold  shore  their  beauty  discloses. 


202 

With  a  home  and  a  country,  a  soul  and  a  God, 

What  freemn  with  terrors  is  haunted, 
Bedecked  with  the  dew  drops  and  washed  with  the 
flood 

Is  the  vine  that  our  forefathers  planted. 

Then  a  health  to  the  brave,  and  the  worthy  that  bore 

The  vine  whose  rich  clusters  o'ershade  us  ; 
They  planted  its  root  by  the  rocks  of  the  shore, 

And  call'd  down  His  blessing  who  made  us. 
— And  a  health  to  the  Fair  who  will  raise  up  a  brave 

Generation  of  Yankees  undaunted, 
To  nourish,  to  cherish,  to  honour  and  save 

The  vine  that  our  forefathers  planted. 


SONNET. 

To  a  Lady,  on  the  death  of  Mrs. 


Weep  if  you  have  a  tear  to  spare 
For  her  who  once  like  you  was  fair. 
Who  led  like  you  the  dance  and  song, 
And  tripp'd  bright  fashion's  paths  along- 


203 

Who  in  maturer  years  look'd  round 
With  circumspective  eye — that  found 
Beneath  the  circuit  of  the  sun 
Nought  it  could  safely  rest  upon. 

That  eye  look'd  upward,  far  away 

And  gaz'd  upon  another  day. 

Clos'd  its  pure  hd  on  all  below — 

Sin,  folly,  vanity  and  woe, 

On  Death's  black  wing  her  w^illing  flight 

Rose  into  uncreated  light. 


STANZAS. 


On  the  lake  of  young  life  is  a  fairy  boat, 

Like  the  sw  eet  new  moon  in  a  summer  sky ; 
Through  a  calm  of  brightness  it  seems  to  float. 
And  in  light  and  beauty  its  course  to  ply. 
As  sudden  as  a  cricket's  spring 

Its  feathery  paddles  dip  the  seas, 
As  gaily  as  the  hum-birds  wing 
Its  sails  arrest  the  scented  breeze ; 


204 

And  pennons  bright  and  streamers  gay 
Flutter  above  the  diamond  spray, 
As  the  keel  cuts  its  wimpling  way. 

A  little  boy — they  call  him  Love — 

With  dimpled  «heek  and  sunny  brow, 
And  pinions  hke  a  nestling  dove, 

Sits  laughing  on  the  fairy  prow. 
And  one  as  rosy  bright  as  he, 

Bearing  his  torch  of  purest  light, 
With  more  of  joy  and  less  of  glee, 

Trims  the  gay  bark,  and  shapes  aright 
The  course,  as  they  distance  to  weather  and  lee 
The  scud  of  the  sky  and  the  foam  of  the  sea. 

Two  forms  are  their  lading,  two  hearts  are  their  care, 

And  precious  the  charge  that  they  joy  to  convey ; 
The  young  and  the  happy,  the  brave  and  the  fair. 
Have  sped  on  their  journey,  how  blithely  away! 
But  as  the  moon,  which  shone  but  now 

A  silver  streak  of  heavenly  light, 
With  added  glory  on  her  brow 
Now  nobly  walks  the  queen  of  night — 

And  firmly  moves,  though  clouds  arise, 
By  storm  and  tempest  fiercely  driven. 


205 

Shrouding  the  blue  and  starry  skies, 
And  darkening  all  the  lights  of  heaven  ; — 
Thus  sped  the  boat ;  each  wale  became 
Of  strong  and  more  enduring  frame, 
And  sternly  to  the  sweeping  blast 
Stood  out  the  tall  and  gallant  mast. 

That  boy  has  strength  and  courage  high, 

And  manliood  lights  with  thought  his  eye  ; 

And  he,  the  pilot,  sits  demure 

In  dignity,  serene,  secure, 

Yes,  all  have  left  their  brightness  now, 

A  brighter  hope  is  on  each  brow  ; 

No  fancied  chart,  of  fairy  bays 

And  elfin  isles,  directs  their  ways — 

A  heavenly  guide  sits  kindly  there. 

Directing  the  course  of  the  brave  and  the  fair. 

In  yon  blessed  place  be  their  anchor  cast, 

And  holy  the  haven  they  find  at  last. 


18 


STANZAS. 

0  well  I  love  thee,  native  land, 

1  love  thy  fair  and  verdant  hills, 

I  love  thy  vales  which  plenty  fills, 
I  love  thy  mountains  rude  and  steep. 
And  all  the  storms  that  o'er  them  sweep, 
O  well  I  love  my  native  land, — 
The  land  of  freedom — yankee  land. 

0  well  I  love  thee,  native  land, 

1  love  thy  waters  white  with  sails, 
Thy  soil  whose  harvest  never  fails, 
Thy  towns  and  villages  and  farms, 
And  cities  far  from  foreign  arms. 
O  well  I  love  my  native  land — 
The  land  of  freedom — yankee  land. 

0  well  I  love  thee,  native  land, 

1  love  thy  halls  where  science  dwells, 
Thy  shrines  where  holy  music  swells, 
Thy  schools — the  birth  right  of  the  free, 
The  bulwark  of  their  liberty. 


207 

O  well  I  love  my  native  land — 
The  land  of  freedom — yankee  land. 

0  well  I  love  thee,  native  land, 

1  love  thy  shrewd  and  hardy  sons, 
For  they  are  brave  and  noble  ones  ; 
And  in  their  bosoms  glow  those  fires, 
That  warm'd  of  old  their  pilgrim  sires. 
O  well  I  love  my  native  land — 

The  land  of  freedom — yankee  land. 

0  well  I  love  thee,  native  land, 

1  love  thy  daughters  : — they  are  fair. 
And  gentle  as  their  mothers  were  ; 
And  worthy  are  they  too  to  be 

The  wives  and  mothers  of  the  free. 
O  well  I  love  my  native  land — 
The  land  of  freedom — yankee  land. 

0  well  I  love  thee,  native  land — 

1  love  thy  banner — it  shall  wave 
Forever  o'er  the  free  and  brave, 
And  aye  our  battle-song  shall  be, 
And  aye  the  song  of  victory. 

O  well  we  love  our  native  land — 
The  land  of  freedom — yankee  land. 


"COME,  COME  TO  ME. 

When  hopes,  and  joys,  and  friends  shall  fail, 
When  prospects  shift  in  every  gale, 
When  gusts  of  sorrow  swell  your  sail, 
And  lave  in  tears  your  vessel's  wale — 

Then  come,  come  to  me. 

When  all  that  cruelty  can  throw 
Upon  you  in  this  world  below 
Shall  come ;  when  each  sad  thought  shall  flow 
To  swell  and  stain  the  stream  of  woe — 
O  come,  come  to  me. 

I'll  wrap  my  mantle  round  youi*  form, 
I'll  shield  you  from  the  pelting  storm, 
By  my  poor  hearth  I'll  keep  you  warm, 
You,  you,  I'll  save  from  fear  and  harm — 

Then  come,  come  to  me. 

O  come  to  me,  O  come  for  life. 
My  joy,  my  hope,  my  friend,  my  wife, 
Far  from  the  grief,  the  pain,  the  strife, 
With  which  this  round  wide  world  is  rife. 
Come,  come  to  me. 


ANSWER    TO    A    FRIEND    AT    A    DISTANCE. 

I  wish — 'tis  no  concern  of  mine, 
But  yet  I  wish  that  you  would  try 

Tlie  painter's  brush,  and  trace  the  line 
Of  grace  or  beauty  by  the  eye  ; — 

And  teach  the  hand  the  tongue's  strange  art 

To  tell  the  stories  of  the  heart. 

For  you  have  never  heard  a  sound, — ■ 
Have  never  uttered  with  the  tongue 

The  music  of  your  looks,  nor  found 
A  voice  their  sweetness,  to  prolong. 

Shall  such  soul  in  such  body  dwell, 

A  pearl  within  a  pearly  shell  ? 

Tr}" !  words  are  colours  ; — Feeling  lays 
Their  tints  on  memory's  open  page, 

Now  bright,  now  soft,  now  dim  their  rays, 
They  gleam  in  youth  and  fade  in  age. 

Yet  when  their  hues  are  gone,  each  stain 

That  daub'd  their  beauties  will  remain. 
18* 


210    . 

A  purer  pallet  grace  your  hand, 

A  purer  pencil  follow  on, 
(Obedient  to  the  eye's  command,) 

The  objects  that  you  think  upon. 
For  you,  from  half  our  frailties  free, 
Might  paint  a  page  of  purity, 

I've  seen  what  I  would  you  could  see, 

The  calm,  the  breeze,  the  gale,  the  motion 

Of  elements  combin'd — yet  free, 
Each  for  itself,  to  vex  the  ocean  ; 

And  thought  that  words  would  ill  supply 

The  cravings  of  the  straining  eye. 

I've  seen  what  you  have  seen,  the  sky 
As  pure  as  innocence  could  make  it. 

As  blue  and  bright  as  beauty's  eye. 
With  not  a  tearful  wink  to  shake  it. 

Ask  not  for  words  in  such  an  hour, 

Nor  the  ear's  listening  listening  power. 

Sense  is  not  competent  to  tell 

The  strivings  of  the  clay-bound  soul ; 

Thoughts  high  as  heaven  and  deep  as  hell. 
Will  awfully  around  it  roll ; 

And  words  are  sacrilege  that  dare 

Its  fearful  workings  to  declare. 


TO  MINE  OLD  PLAID  CLOAK. 

Mine  old  plaid  Cloak  with  which  I've  past 
Through  many  a  storm,  and  northern  blast, 

I  hang  behind  the  door : 
Stern  Winter 's  fled  and  Summer's  near, 
From  cold  I  now  have  nought  to  fear, 

From  snow  or  tempest's  pow'r. 

Thou'st  serv'd  me  long  and  serv'd  me  well, 
Thy  worth,  old  cloak,  I  cannot  tell. 

Words  are  too  feeble  far ; 
With  thee  the  road  of  life  I've  trod, — 
Wrapt  in  thee  I  have  been  to  nod, 

Where  dreams  and  night  mares  are. 

Thou  look'st  a  little  worse  for  wear 
With  edges  torn,  and  here  and  there 

A  dark  unseemly  spot ; 
But  these  mischances  fell  on  thee 
In  a  good  cause, — in  serving  me, 

Those  marks  of  age  thou  got. 


212 

For  these,  imagine  not,  strip'd  friend, 
I  think  less  of  thee, — pray  offend 

Me  not  with  such  a  thought : 
No  ! — hke  the  moles  on  some  fair's  face, 
(To  lover's  eyes,)  they  do  but  grace, 

And  seem  with  beauty  fraught. 

From  men  how  diff 'rent  thou  ! — the  while 
The  sun  of  fortune  shines,  they  smile  ; 

But  let  a  cloud  appear, 
TheyWe  off  like  shot : — thou  art  a  warm 
Kind  hearted  friend,  in  every  storm, — 

With  thee  I  need  not  fear. 

Farewell  old  friend, — but  think  thou  not 
Because  hung  there  thou  art  forgot, — 

No — e'en  in  Leds  reign, 
I'll  take  thee  down  and  clean  thee  well, 
Then  hang  thee  up  to  doze  a  spell, 

'Till  winter  comes  again. 


HYMN 

FOR    THE    ANNIVERSARY    OF    THE    HARTFORD    COUNTY 
AGRICULTURAL    SOCIETY.     1826. 

To  Thee,  O  God,  the  Shepherd  Kings 

Their  earhest  homage  paid, 
And  wafted  upon  angel  wings 

Their  worship  was  convey'd. 

And  they  who  "  watch'd  their  flocks  by  night" 

Were  first  to  learn  thy  grace — 
Were  first  to  seek  by  dawning  light, 

Their  Saviour's  dwelling  place. 

The  hills  and  vales,  the  woods  and  streams. 

The  fruits  and  flowers  are  thine  ; 
Where'er  the  sun  can  send  its  beams 

Or  the  mild  moon  can  shine. 

By  Thee,  the  Spring  puts  forth  its  leaves. 
By  Thee,  comes  down  the  rain. 


214 

By  Thee,  the  yellow  harvest  sheaves 
Stand  ripening  on  the  plain. 

When  Winter  comes  in  storm  and  wrath, 
Thy  soothing  voice  is  heard  ; 

As  round  the  Farmer's  peaceful  hearth 
Is  read  Thy  holy  \vord. 

Thus  are  we  foster'd  by  Thy  care, 

Supported  by  Tliy  hand  ; 
Our  heritage  is  rich  and  fair, 

And  this  Thy  chosen  land. 

*Be  Joseph  yet  a  fruitful  vine. 
Whose  branches  leap  the  wall. 

Make  Thou  its  clusters  ever  Thine, 
Jehovah,  God  of  all. 

Genesis  xlix.  22. 


TO  THE  ]\IOON. 


A    FRAGMENT. 


— And  Fairest  say,  has  that  fell  monster  sin, 

With  pain,  and  mis'iy,  ever  enter'd  in 

A  place  *so  lovely? — have  ye  eyes  that  weep, 

And  broken  hearts  that  mourn  o'er  ruin  deep  ? 

Have  ye  such  forms  as  ours,  made  like  to  God  ? 

(With  souls  that  wander  through  all  space  abroad :) 

And  do  they  sicken,  and  like  us  decay,. 

And  mould'ring  pass  into  their  parent  clay  ? 

Ah  no  !  me-thinks  a  place  that  looks  so  fair. 

Can  have  nought  else  but  what  is  happy  there  ; — 

Ah  no  !  it  cannot,  cannot  be  that  sin. 

Has  planted  there  his  footsteps — not  akin 

Are  ye  to  our  poor  world. — 

Oh  I  hav6  thought,  when  my  last  hour  has  come, 
And  Death  appears  to  take  my  spirit  home  ; 
When  I  have  bid  farewell  to  this  vain  world, 
And  my  frail  bark  has  launch'd,  with  sail  unfurl'd, 


216 

On  the  vast  ocean  of  Eternity, — 

Oh  I  have  thought,  that  might  my  bark  but  be 

Permitted  to  set  sail  for  thy  fair  sphere, 

What  rapture  would  be  mine :  and  not  a  tear, 

Should  dim  my  eye  at  parting ; — and  when  o'er 

The  blue  expanse  I'd  sail'd,  and  thy  bright  shore, 

Beaming  with  light,  should  greet  my  joyful  eye, 

(All  troubles  past,  and  every  care  gone  by,) 

Oh  !  how  I'd  hail  thee,  mansion  of  the  blest, 

For  there  my  weary  soul  would  stay  and  be  at  rest. 


The  girl  I  love,  the  girl  I  love, — 
There's  nothing  else  worth  living  for ; 
Search  realms  below  and  realms  above. 
All  nature's  boundless  charms  explore. 
You  cannot  bring,  you  cannot  bring. 
As  her  I  love,  so  sweet  a  thing. 

There  is  a  spot,  there  is  a  spot. 

Where  oft  we've  met — and  oh  when  there 

With  her  I  love,  no  happier  lot 

Can  I  desire — nor  could  I  care 

Though  nature  all,  though  nature  all, 

Should  into  instant  ruin  fall. 


217 

If  only  she,  if  only  she, 

And  that  one  Httle  hallow'd  spot, 

Could  be  but  sav'd,  where  we  might  flee. 

And  meet  when  all  things  else  were  not — 

There  all  life's  hours,  there  all  life's  hours, 

Would  strew  around  us  love's  own  flowers. 


THE  WIDOWER. 

0  doth  it  walk — that  spirit  bright  and  pure, 
And  may  it  disembodied,  ever  come 

Back  to  this  earth  ?  I  do  not,  dare  not  hope, 

A  reappearance  of  that  kindest  eye, 

Or  of  that  smoothest  cheek  or  sweetest  voice. 

But  can  she  see  my  tears,  when  I,  alone. 

Weep  by  her  grave  ?  and  may  she  leave  the  throng 

Where  angels  minister  and  saints  adore. 

To  visit  this  sad  earth  ! 

When,  as  the  nights 
Of  fireside  winter  gather  chilly  round, 

1  kiss  our  little  child  and  lay  me  down 
Upon  a  widow'd  pillow,  doth  she  leave, 
Those  glorious,  holy,  heavenly  essences, 

19 


218 

Those  sacred  perfumes  round  the  throne  on  high, 
To  keep  a  watch  on  me  ?  and  upon  ours  ? 
— Her  I  did  love,  and  I  was  lov'd  again, 
And  had  it  been  my  mortal  lot,  instead, 
I  would,  were  I  accepted,  ask  my  God, 
For  one  more  look  upon  my  wife  and  child. 


DIRGE. 

ON  THE  DEATH  OF  ADAMS  AND  JEFFERSON. 

Toll  not  the  bell,  and  muffle  not 
The  drum,  nor  fire  the  funeral  shot : 
Nor  half  way  hoist  our  banner  now — 
Nor  weed  the  arm,  nor  cloud  the  brow — 
But  high  to  heav'n  be  rais'd  the  eye, 
And  holy  be  the  rapturous  sigh : 
And  still  be  cannon,  drum  and  bell, 
Nor  let  the  flag  of  sorrow  tell. 

Now  low  are  laid  their  honour'd  forms. 
But  from  the  clods,  and  dust,  and  worms. 
Their  spirits  wake,  and  breathing,  rise 
Above  the  suns  own  glorious  skies. 


219 


And  happy  be  their  airy  track — 
We  may  not,  would  not,  call  them  back  ; — 
For  patnot  hands  may  clasp  with  theirs, 
And  Angel  harps  may  hynm  their  prayers. 


STANZAS. 


My  hopes  were  as  bright  as  the  bow,  when  the  storm 

Is  rolling  away  before  it, 
And  Love  painted  on  them  so  bright  a  form 

That  not  a  cloud  came  o'er  it. 

The  bow  has  gone  and  the  night  come  on 

And  all  is  damp  and  dreary, 
Love  has  departed  and  hope  has  flown 

To  the  silent  grave  of  Mary, 

My  thoughts  were  as  playful  as  billows  that  kiss 
The  rocks  and  the  sands  of  the  shore, 

And  fancy  would  whisper  like  them,  of  a  bliss 
Such  as  mortal  ne'er  met  with  before. 

But  the  billows  are  lost  in  a  whelming  wave 
Whose  voice  shall  be  never  weary, 


220 

And  Fancy  has  withered  hk«  weeds  on  the  grave 
Of  my  lov'd,  my  ruirCd  Mary. 

There  was  joy  in  her  cheek,  there  was  love  in  her  eye. 

And  innocence  play'd  around  her, 
But  her  laugh  of  mirth  was  chang'd  to  a  sigh 

When  the  toils  of  deception  bound  her. 

Now  dead  is  he  that  beguil'd  my  love, 

And  she  that  I  lov'd  so  dearly, 
And  I  shall  join,  in  the  heaven  above 

My  bright  angelic  Mary.. 


THE  YOUNG  WIDOW. 

O  let  my  mourning  have  its  way, 
Your  sympathy  I  cannot  heed  ; 

When  half  the  heart  is  torn  away. 
The  other  part  will  surely  bleed. 

There  is  a  sacredness  in  grief. — 
True  sorrow  loves  to  be  alone ; 

Your  pity  cannot  give  relief, 

My  anguish  must  be  all  my  own. 


i 


221 

I  go  to  clasp  his  manly  form  : 

How  lovely  still  he  looks  in  death  ! 

It  seems  as  if  his  lips  were  warm, 
And  mine  did  feel  his  balmy  breath. 

It  seems  as  if  his  hand  press'd  mine, 

In  token  of  affection  true, 
To  tell  me  that  our  hearts  still  join, 

As  when  our  youthful  love  was  new. 

See  what  a  smile  illumes  his  face  ! 

His  spirit  sure  is  not  yet  fled, — 
Else  how  could  he  such  heavenly  grace 

O'er  all  his  placid  features  shed. 

Ah  !  fond  deceit,  illusion  dear  ! 

A  httle  longer  wilt  thou  last ; 
It  soothes  me  thus  to  linger  here, 

And  cherish  mem'ry  of  the  past. 

Bring  not  too  soon  his  winding  sheet, 
Nor  bear  him  from  my  sight  away ; 

The  luxury  of  grief  is  sweet, 
Let  me  a  little  longer  stay. 


19* 


THE  DOG-WATCH.* 

Sweep  on,  the  wave  is  curl'd  with  foam, 
Sweep  on,  tlie  tide  is  bearing  home, 

Sweep  on,  the  breeze  is  fair ; 
The  sun  himself  hastes  to  the  West, 
Where  hes  the  home  that  I  love  best, 
Wave,  tide,  and  breeze,  may  rage  or  rest 

When  I  get  there. 

The  twilight  smiles  upon  the  sea, 
The  stars  shine  out  to  pilot  me  ; 

And  one,  amidst  the  glare 
Of  all  their  host, — the  evening  star 
Stoops  sweetly  o'er  my  home  afar. 
And  says  no  storm  my  course  shall  mar, 

Till  I  get  there. 

The  list'ning  of  an  anxious  ear. 
The  gaze  that  brightens  through  a  tear. 
Out-feel  the  watchers  round. 

*  On  the  homeward  passage,  in  the  merchant  service,  the  mate 
keeps  the  watch  from  six  to  eight.  This  is  called  the  Dog- 
Watch. 


223 


/  only  hear  the  breakers  roar, 
/  only  see  my  own  dear  shore, 
'Tis  /  that  soon  shall  tread  once  more 
My  native  ground. 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  ALEXANDER, 

EMPEROR    OF    THE    RUSSIAS,    AT    TAGANROK,    DEC.     1825. 

Napolean  died  upon  Helena's  rock, 

Round  and  beneath  were  pil'd  and  stor'd  the  wavee, 
Mighty  and  fathomless,     Atlantic's  shock 

Recoil'd,  and  through  its  deepest  coldest  caves, 

Of  pillar'd  spar  and  coral  architraves, 
Did  ocean's  homage  to  that  strange  man's  death. 

Bad  was  he,  but  yet  great.     Of  kings,  of  slaves, 
Of  Popes,  the  equal  dread.     His  latest  breath 
Fell  where  the  waters  wash'd  to  shore  his  sea-green 
wreath. 

But  thou,  by  Asian  Azoff 's  shallow  pool, 
Where  the  Don  pours  its  tributary  mud, 

Where  nought  but  cold  Cimmerian  blasts  have  rule, 
And  Kalmuck's  hungry  Tartars  fight  for  food ; 


224 

Thou,  whom  we  once  thought  wise,  and  great,  and 
good — 
Peace,  such  as  thou  did'st  wish  to  all,  abide 

With  thee — a  despot's  peace.     So  let  the  flood 
Of  mem'ry  stagnate  round  thee,  like  the  tide 
That  washes  Taganrok  from  Azof's  shallowest  side. 

Then  let  the  Cossack  trail  his  barb'rous  lance, 
And  learn  to  do  the  obsequies  of  Czars  ; 

Teach  his  wild  horse  around  thy  grave  to  prance, 
And  know  the  sounds  of  amens  from  hurras. 
He,  paid  in  plunder  for  his  wounds  and  scars. 

Rejoices  that  another  chance  may  come. 

When  southward,  in  the  strife  of  Turkish  wars, 
That  horse  shall  bear  Tambourgi's  muffled  drum, 

And  trample,  not  as  now,  on  many  a  lordly  tomb. 


Fair  liberty  !  Nor  he  of  Helen's  Isle, 

Nor  he  of  Azof's  side,  were  born  of  thee. 
Children  of  cruelty,  long  nurs'd  by  guile, 

They  claim  no  tear  of  tribute  from  the  free. 

Then  let  the  despots  rest.     But  where  is  he 
Who,  pure  in  life,  majestic  in  his  fall. 

Lay  down  beneath  his  native  cedar-tree  ? 
Potomack's  wave,  Mount  Vernon's  grassy  pall, 
That  wraps  his  relics  round,  O  !  these  are  worth  them  alL 


TO  AN  ANTIQUE  FEMALE  BUST. 

Ay,  there  thou  art,  as  beautiful  and  fair 

As  when  created.     Time  who  does  not  spare 

The  most  divine  of  human  forms,  has  left 

On  thy  pale  brow  no  wrinkle, — nor  bereft 

Thee  of  a  single  charm  ; — ages  have  swept 

O'er  thy  fair  head,  but  still  thy  cheek  has  kept 

Its  sheen  and  smoothness  ;  and  thy  eye,  that  seems 

To  gaze  on  something  not  of  earth,  still  teems 

With  youthful  light.     Ah  there  thou  art, — 'midst  all 

The  desolation  of  the  world — the  fall 

Of  that  which  once  was  beautiful  or  great, — 

Thou  hast  remain'd  unharm'd  ; — the  common  fate 

Of  things  was  not  for  thee.     Ay  there  thou  art, — 

But  where,  where  are  the  thousands  who  on  thee, 

Have  turn'd  the  admiring  eye — and  where  is  he 

Who  gave  such  beauty  to  mankind — who  taught 

Thee  thus  to  smile — so  like  the  blest, — who  caught 

High  inspiration  from  above  and  cast 

Each  feature  in  a  mould  divine  ? — soon  past 


'Mi 


226 

Was  his  and  their  existence  ;  and  their  frames 

Long  since  have  turn'd  to  dust. — Daath  has  no  claims 

On  thee  thou  fair  one  !  thou'lt  exist  when  we, 

Who  now  behold  thy  charms  shall  mould'ring  be 

In  earth  ;  and  others  will  arise,  and  gaze, 

And  bovT  before  thee, — still  will  beauty's  rays 

Beam   from  thee,  bright,   as   though  thou  just   had'st 
sprung, 

New  into  life — still  beautiful,  still  young ! 


TO    A    LADY    FOR    A    NOSEGAY. 

Pleni  manihus,  ferte  liUia,ferte. 

Who  does  not  love  a  flower  ? 
Its  hues  are  taken  from  the  light, 
Which  summer's  sun  flings  pure  and  bright. 
In  scattered  and  prismatic  hues 
That  shine  and  smile  in  dropping  dews; 
Its  fragrance  from  the  sweetest  air. 
Its  form  from  all  that's  light  and  fair — 

Who  does  not  love  a  flower  ? 

A  lesson  to  the  giver. 
Not  in  the  streets  to  bloom  and  shine. 


227 

Not  in  the  rout  of  noise  and  wine, 
Not  trampled  by  the  rushing  crowd, 
Not  in  pav'd  streets  and  cities  proud — 
From  danger  safe,  from  bhghting  free, 
Pure,  simple,  artless,  let  it  be. 
An  emblem  of  the  giver. 


STIFLED    WITH    SWEETS. 


Was  I  not  serv 'd  in  open  day 

With  buds  and  flowers  ! — and  whence  came  they  ? 
In  the  still  night,  as  poets  tell. 
Queen  Mab  rings  out  her  little  bell. 
And  sends  her  sylphs  on  moonlight  beams. 
To  weave  our  happy  youthful  dreams, 
(Ere  morning  crimsons  for  the  day 
That  comes  to  chase  them  all  away) 
To  whisper  in  the  slumberer's  ear. 
Thoughts  full  of  young  and  buoyant  cheer ; 
To  put  such  nectar  to  the  lip 
As  waking  mortals  never  sip — 
To  place  a  rose  bud  on  each  eye, 
To  purify  the  sleeper's  sigh, 
And  best  of  all,  beside  his  couch 


228 


Leave  on  his  cheek  a  Fairy's  touch. 
But  who  in  honest  open  day 
Sends  buds  and  flowers — and  whence  come  they. 


O  death !  O  grave  !  O  endless  world  beyond ! 

And  Thou,  the  Holy  One  that  shuttest  up 

What  no  man  openeth — That  openeth 

That  which  nor  man— nor  death — nor  the  fill'd  grave 

Can  ever  shut !  To  Thee,  how  reverend, 

How  humble,  and  how  pure  should  be  our  prayer. 

Forgive  us,  for  what  are  we  !    What  but  worms 

That  crawl  and  bask  and  shine — then  writhe  and  die. 

But  there  is  hope  in  Heaven.     I  hear  a  voice 

That  says  the  dead  are  blessed,  if  they  die 

In  Him  who  died  for  them.     That  whoso  lives 

Believing,  shall  not  die  eternally. 

— So  may  we  live  and  so  apply  our  hearts 

To  God's  true  wisdom  in  our  number'd  days. 

That  though  we  be  cut  down  even  as  the  flowers. 

And  though  we  flee  like  passing  shadows  by, 

Hereafter  we  may  bloom  again — and  stand 

Where  all  that  blooms  shall  bloom  eternally, 

And  shadows,  like  the  bitter  thoughts  of  life 

Can  never  flit  across  the  holy  path, 

Nor  darken  one  forgiving  smile  of  Heaven. 


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